


Dragonpyre

by ang3lba3, Mellomailbox



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - No Avatar (Avatar TV), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Animal Sacrifice, Arranged Marriage, Assisted Suicide, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bottom Zuko (Avatar), Chief Sokka, Curses, Dragon Zuko (Avatar), Drowning, Geographical Isolation, Kid Fic, Light BDSM, M/M, Mentioned past Zuko/others, Mutual Pining, Sokka has some toxic masculinity to unlearn, Sort Of, Spirit World, Top Sokka (Avatar), War, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, dragon baby, not main characters, sorta - Freeform, suicidal thoughts in an immortal creature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 93,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: At 26, Sokka is the Chief of the Southern Water tribe and the last remaining warrior. He's also the only one who can honor the centuries long treaty with the dragon. He doesn't know exactly what that entails since the treaty was destroyed, but he's not gonna letthatstop him.Wherein: spirits meddle, magic made them cuddle, and the tropical island is just the beginning.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 373
Kudos: 900
Collections: avatar tingz





	1. Chapter 1

The stories say: _it comes every fifty years._

The stories say: _he takes one away, and leaves one behind, old and withered._

The stories say: _we have no choice. The agreement is made. A volunteer must come forward._

Gran-gran, whose older brother had gone with the dragon and never come back, says: _That scaly sack of seal shit is going to get what’s coming to him one day._

***

Sokka stands at the lip of the barrier wall, his entire village at his back. It’s made of snow bricks, iced on the seams to lock together, sturdy as any stone. He doesn’t slip as the wind howls against his body, thrashing around his wolftail and the various decorative knots and braids that mark him a Warrior and a Chief. His eyes sting as the sun begins to set on the second day of their anticipation; they know when the Dragon is meant to return, but days aren’t exact. 

He needs to be ready. He needs the Dragon to see him strong, fearless, immovable against the South Pole’s harsh environment the same way that he will be against the Dragon itself during his captivity. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Katara tells him. Her arms are crossed. She’s been trying to offer herself in his place for days. Sometimes he even thinks she means it, and that she wouldn’t immediately commit suicide by dragon-fight.

“You can learn to fight, eventually,” Sokka says, for the billionth time. “I can’t learn to heal with _waterbending._ ”

“You say that like I can’t already kick your ass,” Katara says, and pulls a dagger of ice from the wall meaningfully.

“Whoa there, leave something for the dragon to chew on!”

“That’s not funny,” she snaps, and he makes a face. 

“Yeah, yeah. You did your crying already, now’s the time to toughen up.” A knife whistles by his ear and it’s only with years of experience that he doesn’t flinch. 

“If you don’t quit it with the gallows humor, I’ll give you something _real_ to _laugh about,”_ Katara threatens.

Sokka sticks out his tongue at her. 

Katara sticks out hers back. 

There’s a gasp from behind them, and Sokka whirls to see a shadow descend from the low cloud cover. It’s enormous, big as a Fire Nation freighter but barrelling down at them from the _sky,_ and Sokka’s breath catches in his chest. 

He squares his shoulders and jaw, arms crossed, eyes locked on the beast as it descends. 

It’s massive. It’s huge. It’s— it’s beyond adjectives, it’s five hundred polar-dogs stacked on top of each other and covered in blood that gleams where the light hits it. The smallest fang he can see is the size of his _arm._

__

__

__It lands with a shudder that threatens to destabilize the wall, snow rushing around it in a flurry of displaced air. The dragon extends a leg forward, bowing in a sinuous arch.

A figure bundled in South Pole blues and yellows slides down his shoulder, whooping the whole way like he’s penguin sledding. He hits the snow with both feet, and sets his hands on his waist. 

“I’m gonna miss that!” he says, and slaps the dragon’s arm. The dragon blinks down at him, clearly unamused, and Sokka considers peeing himself. The overthinking ruins it though, and the moment passes.

The man stumbles on the ice, likely unfamiliar with it after fifty years on a tropical island, and before Sokka can rush to his aide the dragon steadies him with a giant, clawed foot. The old man clutches a giant toe and grins up at it, eyes crinkled with age. 

“Never gonna get my pole feet back if you baby me,” the old man scolds playfully. 

The dragon makes a dragon face, which is the kind of face that says _I’ll do whatever I want to,_ and takes no special expressions to drive it home _._

“He’s gone senile,” Sokka hisses to Katara. 

“You don’t know that,” she hisses back, eyeing the old man-- Bato, they _know_ it’s him-- as he carefully steps towards them, the dragon supporting him as far as it can reach. 

“You’re the replacement?” Bato asks Sokka, eyeing the Chief adornments dubiously. He glances over Sokka’s shoulder, as if searching for something.

“I am,” Sokka says sternly, glancing back and forth between Bato and the dragon. When he’s fairly certain that the dragon doesn’t plan to rush them with murderous intent he lets his gaze settle fully on Bato, grinning. “Uncle Bato. I can’t believe I get to meet the legend.” 

Something heartbroken happens in Bato’s face then. Not that it could have been anyone else—who but Hakoda’s son would become Chief, realistically? 

“Oh, kid,” he says, and pulls Sokka into a tight hug. He slips something into Sokka’s furs as he does. “I wish I got a chance to know you.” 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, holding Bato tightly and imagining that he smells like Hakoda. 

“Well, Kya will have all kinds of stories for me,” Bato says cheerfully, pulling back. Sokka places a hand to his chest, to hold whatever Bato had slipped inside his furs there. Rectangular, hard. Some kind of box? Book?

“Uncle Bato,” Katara says hesitantly, and his face lights up as he reaches for her, pulling her into his arms just as enthusiastically. She clutches him as tightly as Sokka had, and he feels a moment of jealousy for the father figure Katara’s gained.

“Mom and Dad,” she starts to say, but Bato can hear the pain in her voice and pulls back, face drawn in understanding. He glances around as if only just noticing how sparse the turnout for the sacrifice is. 

“The guy just got here,” Sokka says, and punches her shoulder. “Let him settle in before dragging up ancient history.”

“Maybe we should talk about this—” Bato starts, and then the dragon _yawns_. 

It’s probably not a threat. It’s _definitely_ terrifying, rows and rows of serrated fangs on display. It closes its maw and blinks slowly at Sokka, making direct eye contact. 

Maybe it is a threat. Sokka’s heart leaps and he throws his pack over his shoulder, sliding down the wall before he can be trapped by anymore goodbyes. Even as terror beats in his ears, he clambers up the dragon the same way Bato had slid down. The scales seem to move under him, providing convenient handholds as they shift, but it’s too disturbing to think about so he ignores it.

There’s a long beat after he’s settled in the area covered by a few thick blankets, which he presumes is where Bato came from. There’s also a basket, with half a loaf of bread and some water. They should be frozen solid, but warmth emanates from the scales underneath him. He can’t really see the village from here, just red, everywhere. 

He should have hugged Katara. Who knows when he’ll get to see her again?

(Well. They all know.) 

“Are you ready?” The dragon says, rumbly and guttural and not actually words. Sokka does his best not to shriek.

“You’re talking,” Sokka says, voice pitched high in panic. The dragon has no comment on that. He clears his throat, deepening to a manly baritone. “I mean, I didn’t know you could do that.”

The dragon still doesn’t comment. Maybe it’s hard to talk, as a dragon. Maybe it’s just an antisocial dickhead.

Either way.

“I’m ready,” Sokka says. 

“Any pets?” The dragon asks, after Sokka’s sure it’s planning to stay in this exact spot for the rest of the night. He’d counted eighteen deep dragon breaths before startled again by the grind of not-words. 

Why does he want to know if Sokka has _pets?_ He doesn’t, of course. A polar-dog is a luxury even the Chief’s son can’t afford, lately. Does he want to eat them? 

“Nope,” Sokka answers, pulling his fur hood further over his ears and forehead. “Just me.” _Please don’t eat me._

The dragon doesn’t speak again, this time for twenty-two great big dragon breaths. Then he says, “Hold on.”

“To _what—AHH OH MY GOD I DON’T WANNA DIE!”_ Sokka grabs at the spines directly in front of him on the dragon’s neck as it starts _moving_ , preparing to take off. The scales around him have curled up, cutting up into the blankets and holding them in place.

Sokka buries his face in the blankets and hunches in on himself, prepared to die. 

***

He does not die. 

Once the fear and the subsequent relief wear off, it gets boring fast. There’s really not much to do back here, except ‘hold on’ and hope that Bato’s present doesn’t go flying into the ocean. The basket, with bread and water, was lost almost immediately.

Maybe he was supposed to hold onto the _basket._

He’s absolutely not letting go of the spine to check. 

Once, he tries to lift his head enough to get a look at the ocean, but the wind slaps him in the face for his daring and he hunches back down, eyes watering and nothing but an impression of bright, all-encompassing blue.

***

They land on an island. He’d been under the impression that it was a volcanic island, but that might have just been wishful poetry, fitting for a dragon’s lair. 

Then the dragon does something halfway between a cough and a bark, like a hen-cat with a hairball. Fire spurts out. Sokka can’t actually see it, but he can feel it, smell the steam coming off the ocean.

Okay. Right. Right. Volcano _is_ the dragon. This is why he’s a warrior, not a poet.

Again the dragon arches its spine and stretches out its leg. Sokka jumps at the opportunity to get away, scrambling numbly down it’s flank and dropping to his feet. His pack overbalances him and he stumbles, dodging out of the way of a clawed foot and landing on his ass in the sand. 

He’s face to face with the most beautiful sunset he’s seen in… feels like forever. There’s not time for sunsets when you’re in charge of your tribe’s continued existence. Sokka thinks he’s going to have to get used to sunsets again as he looks around the beach, taking in the line of trees and the edge of a cottage roof and the utter, complete absence of people. 

His eyes are drawn back to the sky. It shocks him into stillness, the way the sky is red-purple-pink, the soft curve of a waning moon and the first few stars visible. 

And it’s _warm,_ warm as hot springs, warm enough that he’s barely been on the ground a minute and he’s already sweating through his furs. 

The dragon lumbers towards the trees, tail dragging through the sand and leaving a deep gouge in its wake. Sokka pulls off his top parka and gets to work on his second one, dampness gathering rapidly at his collar and underarms. 

The rectangle that Bato had shoved in his pocket drops onto his lap. 

Blech. Book. Clearly Bato wasn’t the _fun_ uncle.

The dragon does a circle, also not unlike a hen-cat, and falls to the ground, nose tucked under its tail. It's staring at Sokka as it sucks in a deeply labored breath, words rushing out with the exhale. “Come... here. Sleep. Now.” 

“I’m hungry,” Sokka says, before he can think better of it. 

The dragon stares at him, drops his head on his paws once, and then again. He takes a long time to form the next words. “Will. Feed you. Come.”

“Will feed _on_ me, more like,” Sokka mutters, flinching when the dragon’s ears twitch at him. “Yeah, ok, sure,” he agrees, skin crawling as he cautiously approaches. 

He sits down a few feet away, piling his parkas into a makeshift pillow. Then he puts his head on it, telegraphing every movement in what he hopes is a _not tasty!_ manner. 

It must be close, because the dragon reaches into the ocean with one massive paw, and brings it back with a fish speared on its index claw. Which is _way too fast,_ is this some kind of— magic fishing dragon? Do they have those? Then the dragon is twisting its head and BREATHING FIRE.

Sokka is apparently not too tired to scream. 

The dragon stops breathing fire, and stares at him tiredly. Then it looks back at the half cooked fish. It looks at Sokka again, and then looks back to the fish. This time it puckers its dragon lips—which, Sokka didn’t really realize dragons had _lips_ but now he’s looking and they _really, really do_ — and lets out the tiniest little stream of fire at the fish. 

Sokka, still thinking _dragon lips?!?!_ manages not to scream this time. Not much, anyways. Barely a squeal. 

The fish lands on Sokka’s lap and the dragon very carefully lays one of it’s massive paws on Sokka’s feet. If it was pinning him in place it would probably hurt, but instead it’s just gently cupping the bare skin from where he’d rolled up his pants and shucked his boots. 

The fish smells _really_ good. 

“Uh,” Sokka says. “Thanks?”

The dragon smiles with its giant dragon lips, careful to keep them closed, just a curl at the end. 

Sokka shivers in revulsion and goes about shredding the fish scales with his knife. He eats while the dragon watches him sleepily, an occasional sigh fluttering Sokka’s clothes. Once the fish is bones and Sokka’s had a drink from his waterskin the dragon finally closes both its eyes, shifting to get more comfortable. 

It keeps its paw on Sokka’s leg, essentially pinning him. 

What, does it think he’s going to try and swim away? 

“Tell me,” the dragon rumbles, “if you...need…” it trails off, sucking in another giant breath. Sokka waits, feeling his hair tug away from his scalp in the unnatural breeze. “To...pee.” 

“...no,” Sokka says, just as slowly, “I don’t think I will.” 

“Gross…” the dragon says, and then starts snoring. Lightly. As lightly as a giant monster dragon could possibly snore. 

...right.

***

He wakes up to sweaty, sandy skin and the sun directly in his eyes. He groans, catching the position well enough to tell that it’s past noon, and rolls to his feet. Immediately his body reports in. 

Piss. 

He does, in the trees, smacking his lips against the crust that’s formed in the corners of his mouth. 

Water. 

He digs out his waterskin and drains the remains, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

He doesn’t know much about trees, or plants in general, but what he _does_ know is that they need freshwater. Which the ocean isn’t. Thus: there must be freshwater somewhere on this island. He can find it later, when other needs aren’t as urgent. 

Which brings him to: 

_Food._

He has beluga-porcupine jerky in his pack, but it’s not enough to keep a grown warrior going long. The dragon will feed him at least sometimes, but since it hadn’t been there when he woke up, he shouldn’t depend on it. He shouldn’t depend on it, _period_. Sokka digs out one strip to gnaw on as he surveys the island, gets an idea of its resources.

Stepping out of the other side of the forest, not having discovered anything more substantial than some brightly colored birds, he sees… a farm.

“Uncle Bato, you son of a bitch,” he says, smiling like it’s Winter Solstice and his birthday and Prank Katara day all in one.

There’s a barn where he can see the nose of a cow-moose, a ladder set up against the side, presumably so that Sokka can feed it without getting kicked in the head by a giant hoof. He spies the trough bolted up at mouth-height for the beasts and grins, moving further in to explore more. 

He hears the hen-cat before he sees them, their distinct _mraawAWWK._

“Oh my Yue,” he swears, the way he does whenever he wants to let her know what’s up with him. His mouth is already watering. Hen-cat are a _holiday only_ delicacy. They eat them on birthdays and spirit celebrations, and their last one had died nearly ten years prior. 

There hadn’t been any money to buy more.

“Thank you _so much,_ ” he says to the moonless sky. “If you said the dragon had been blessed by the spirits with _hen-cat_ I would not have argued with you that much about coming here.”

 _“MRAWWWWK!”_ Screams a hen-cat, directly at him. She’s an old, tough looking thing, but she’s also the closest to the fence. Almost like she’s excited to see him.

“Hello, dinner,” Sokka greets it, pulling out his hatchet.

***

Zuko hadn’t had the heart to wake the newcomer. He’d looked so peaceful, and the first few weeks are always the hardest.

And the first day had already been pretty fucking hard.

Instead, he just lays on the sand for a moment, grateful to have fingers and toes and human vocal chords and _hair_ and _skin_ again. He hates being in his dragon form, but there’s no way around it. Not with the distance they had to travel, and Bato’s advanced age. (And before him Jima, and Kairu, Nyajokka, Sikku, Hakuro, Kato, and his very first--Hekka.)

Then he forces himself to his feet, staggering through the woods in the direction of the cottage. It’s noon, but only barely, and he has to get the welcome kit ready. He hipchecks a tree, balance unsteady on two legs, and winces at the scrape of the bark. Shit. Pants. He has to… pants, too. A shirt, even. Agni, it’s almost like having company.

He spends way too long dithering between different shirts. Especially since when he starts putting the one he’d chosen on he gets so nervous he sets it on fire, and then he has to stomp it out, and the shirt is _ruined_ , so he decides on _no shirt,_ and then he panics halfway out the door and goes right back to trying to pick a shirt.

This. Might take a while.

It’s always nerve-wracking getting a new sacrifice, and adjusting to the loss of an old one. Zuko’s been doing this for some 400 years, and while it hasn’t gotten easier, he’s long since controlled his fire. 

It’s just. Been a really, _really_ long time since he’s seen someone as attractive as this one. Even beneath the furs he could tell, his eyes pale blue of the northern skies, jaw square and stubborn. And then when he’d stripped on the beach-- 

Another shirt starts to smoke and Zuko curses, patting it out. He can’t afford more shirts, not on the salary he and Bato had managed these last few years with his health failing and the agriculture going to the wayside. 

No shirt it is. And he’ll just have to make sure not to set his pants on fire, while he’s humiliating himself in front of the most beautiful person he’s seen in decades. Zuko’s capable of _that_ much, surely.

He grabs the box, gives his fingers a stern look, straightens his spine, clenches his ass, breathes deeply, and heads out the door.

*** 

Sokka is crying. He is crying real tears over this hen-cat. He is smeared in grease down to his elbows and sniffling.

It’s just been so _hard_ , since Dad left and took the rest of the warriors with him. Sokka had never really had time to be a kid, everyone throwing their weight behind the tribe’s survival, but by fifteen he was de-facto Chief. The hen-cat tastes like Gran-gran’s sniping comments, Katara’s shrieking-snort-laugh, Dad polishing his knives and reapplying the protective paint to his boomerang. 

The last meal that they shared was his Chieftain confirmation the evening before dad and the first wave of warriors left. They’d butchered the last hen-cat for him, and even though there was only one he’d insisted that everyone get a piece. 

That single bite had been the single worst and best bite of feline poultry he’d ever eaten. 

He’s just started on one of the wings, careful not to chomp through the tiny bones and ruin the meat entirely, when— 

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?!” 

Sokka shrieks, choking on a small bone, and starts coughing to the side of the fire as the stranger storms towards him. His eyes are watering too hard to get a look at them, but even if he hadn’t searched the whole island he’s _sure_ he would have known if someone else was living here. 

“You can’t die until I _kill you,”_ the stranger snarls, and Sokka’s still choking to death or he’d have something to say about that. Then he gets right behind Sokka, and pushes his fists up into his diaphragm.

Sokka hocks up the bone onto the sound and the person makes a disgusted sound, stepping away and around to point accusingly into his face with a clawed finger.

“I left you alone for an _hour!”_ he says. “And you _murder my hen-cats?!_ Are you a human or a cougar-elk! _”_

Sokka wipes at his eyes, partially to clear them and partially to see if he’s looking at a hallucination. Maybe a mirage? It is a lot hotter on this island than he’s used to, and he’s sitting in front of the heat of the fire. 

The fury on the hallucination’s face folds up, crumples under the weight of grief and exhaustion. The hallucination shoves their face in their hands, and starts whispering, over and over, _Gods damn it._

The hallucination is definitely crying a little. 

They’re beautiful. Long black hair, smooth skin, ruby scales glittering around a gold eye and dusted across shoulders and elbows and knuckles and...clawed, reptilian feet poking out the bottom of a pair of silk pants. 

“Oh my spirits,” Sokka says, and starts eating the hen-cat as fast as he can before he dies. 

“Could you at _least,”_ the dragon says, voice cracking, “Wait until I leave to finish eating my pet?”

“Um, good news,” Sokka says like he talks to humanoid dragons every day, “this isn’t a pet. It’s a hen-cat. I took it from the pen around back.” He shoves another chunk of meat into his mouth. 

There’s this weird shiver that happens up the entirety of the dragon’s body, where all of the patches of scales stand on end simultaneously. Not unlike a pissed hen-cat’s feathers.

Whoops.

“She came right up to me,” Sokka says. “Uh. She was really old too. So no harm, no fowl!”

The dragon does not laugh. In fact, he starts to smoke, tendrils drifting from between it’s lips and from it’s nostrils. 

Where his tears hit the sand, the sand _liquefies._

He throws himself into the water. Sokka eats mechanically, watching the waves and wondering if he’s just killed the majestic being his tribe was sworn to protect. He’d seen the boat on the other shore; can he sail home?

“GLINDAAAAAA,” the dragon howls in between hacking up mouthfuls of surf. It sounds like a polar-dog vomiting. “I HATCHED,” _hack,_ “YOU MYSELF,” _hack,_ “I HATE,” _HACK HACK HACK,_ “EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING CAN FUCKING BURN,” and here he dunks his head under the water for so long Sokka thinks he might actually have drowned. But then he’s back up, coughing out what looks like a chunk of seaweed. 

Well, not dead. Should he be relieved or disappointed? 

“I’M HAVING A VERY BAD DAY!” he roars at the sky.

Sokka wipes some grease out of his beard, realizing that his plan to kill the dragon if possible is out the proverbial window, now. He can’t kill a _person_ in cold-blood, not even if it means returning to his tribe. 

The dragon just stands there in the water for a few minutes, entirely motionless. Then he turns towards the beach, stalking out of the water. 

“That box,” he says in a clipped voice. “Everything you need to start with. Everything you need to know for right now.”

“I feel like this isn’t just about the hen-cat,” Sokka observes. 

“Ssssmart one, _huh?_ ” the dragon hisses as it storms past him. Even six feet away Sokka can feel the heat radiating from him. He picks the last of the meat off of the bones and tosses them into the fire before burying it in sand to smolder it. He cleans his hands in the surf and returns to the box where it’s lying where the dragon had dropped it. 

It’s made of a dark wood, thick and lacquered. Expensive. There’s a gold catch keeping it closed, and Fire Nation imagery across the base in gold ink. 

The first thing in the box is a pamphlet. In big friendly letters it says WELCOME TO YOUR NEW LIFE!, and there’s a stylized drawing of a tropical island with a dragon on it and an old fashioned looking Southern Water tribe warrior. It is not drawn to scale. The warrior is hugging the dragon. They are both smiling. _Hekka_ is scrawled at the bottom, _Zuko_ signed next to it in a delicate script.

“That is so much creepier than anything has the right to be,” Sokka mutters. Hekka. That’s a Northern Water tribe name. So then the dragon is… “Zoo-koh. Zuko.”

Beneath the book, which is filled with similar calligraphy and simple illustrations, Sokka finds clothes and _more_ books, leatherbound and cracking, other names penned on the covers. 

This is beyond creepy. These are the belongings of _dead guys_. He shivers, and slams the lid shut without looking any further. If he’s gonna read anything (ugh) he’ll read Bato’s book, since he’s still alive and gave him permission to. 

Sokka debates returning their items to the sea, but considering that none of the past sacrifices had done so, he guesses there’s a reason Zuko’s allowed to keep them. He’ll pray about it during the next full moon for guidance, even if every instinct in him is telling him to toss the box into the surf. 

You don’t fuck with spirits, and you don’t fuck with ancestors, and you _don’t_ just ‘trust your gut’ on it. He’s learned that the hard way.

He takes the box to the cottage, intending to return it. He even gets as far as laying his hand on the door, but can’t bring himself to push it open. A full body shudder wracks through him. 

He can hear the dragon crying, inside.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, face heating in secondhand embarrassment for witnessing the dragon’s weakness, and leaves the box at the door to go exploring the parts of the island that he hasn’t yet. There’d been some bobbers indicating fishing nets to the eastern side, and there looked to be caves, which means potential for tropical seal-lions and shellfish. 

Sokka removes his shirt and rolls up his pant-legs in preparation for the wading to come, pulling a spear from a weapons rack mounted to the back of the cottage and heading towards the other side of the island. Best to keep busy. 

It’s all he knows. 

***

Okay. Okay. Zuko needs to stop crying now. 

“Stop crying,” he tells himself. 

It doesn’t work.

“You didn’t even like Bato that much,” he lies, loudly. “He snored, and he was constantly pranking you, and once he hired a prostitute for you as a _surprise._ ”

That works, if only because it makes him laugh. Gods. He’d really thought he was being raided by a pirate, right up until it turned out Jet’s sword was made out of wood. He seizes the break while he has it, wipes at the tears furiously. His eyes are going to be puffy, and his face is probably blotchy, but there’s no way around that.

Just like there’s no way around all the apologies he’s going to have to make. He shouldn’t have blown up on the guy like that. It wasn’t like he had _known_. And sure, Zuko’s lost his oldest hen-cat and a friend of half a century in the same 48 hours, but— 

“Reasons are explanations, not excuses,” he reminds himself.

There’s a hesitant knock at the door, and Zuko’s startled enough that he coughs a flame. Bato didn’t _knock._ But this isn’t Bato, it’s someone else, someone who’s _name_ he doesn’t even _know._

“I got dinner,” the voice on the other side of the door says.

A bolt of fear shoots through Zuko, electrifying, and he’s across the room ripping the door open almost before the word _dinner_ is done.

It’s the warrior. He’s holding a net of crabs, and flinches away from the sudden movement. 

“I haven’t killed them yet, in case they’re also...important,” he says weakly, holding them up so that Zuko can see the way they’re wiggling inside the net. 

“They’re crabs,” Zuko sighs in relief, slumping against the door frame.

The warrior stares at Zuko’s face, eyes furrowed in concentration.

“I give up, what does that mean?” he asks.

“Means I’m grabbing the cauldron. We can eat on the beach.” He knows from experience that sharing a meal _and_ sleeping in the cottage together can be too much. 

“You have the map? From the pamphlet? Go grab some butter and salt from the dairy cellar,” he says, and stretches out his back, rolls his neck. When he looks up, the warrior is still standing there, staring at him blankly. 

“I do not,” the warrior admits, shifting around. “I mean-- look, you’ve spent time with,” he counts on his fingers silently, “eight of us. _Someone_ must have explained to you that touching the belongings of someone who’s passed…” he trails off, stalled by the expression Zuko’s giving him. 

“Ah,” Zuko says, and feels like a real asshole on every single level. Fucked even that much up. “They left them for you. They’re… handbooks, I guess? To me. The fuckers,” and he snort-laughs at that, has to wipe at a suddenly watery eye. “They said I’m not allowed to read them. Sacrifices only.”

The warrior looks at him dubiously but doesn’t push for more information, instead backing out the door so that Zuko can follow him. 

“H-” and he chokes on the name even after all these years, some days, “Hekka and me made the pamphlet though. So, if you’re worried about offending the dead, don’t. That’s not even the original copy.”

“Ok,” he says, still sounding unconvinced. Zuko lets it go and leads the way to the outdoor cooking-pit. 

“The dairy’s attached to the cow-moose pen,” he says. “Can’t miss it, there’s a sign and everything.”

“That… makes sense,” the warrior nods, and peels away without a parting word. 

“We’ll talk over dinner!” Zuko calls after him. He gets a single raised hand, acknowledgement that he’d been heard.

The first few weeks are always the hardest.

***

“So,” Sokka says, “You’re--”

“What’s your name?” Zuko interrupts him. It sounds like he’s been sitting on the question a while, practically exploding out of him. Sokka blinks, and blushes, scrubbing at the back of his head with butter-greased fingers. _He never told him his name._

“Sokka,” he says, “Sokka, son of Hakoda and Kya, Chief of the Southern Water tribe,” he adds, too much pride in his heritage to let it go, even now when it’s meaningless. 

“Sokka,” Zuko says, and smiles so brilliantly that his eyes scrunch up at the corners, the one surrounded by scales a narrow gold slit. “Sokka, son of Hakoda and Kya, Chief of the Southern Water tribe. Bato would be…” he cuts himself off, the smile fading, and Sokka doesn’t hear what Bato would be. 

“I’m Zuko.”

“I saw,” Sokka says, doing his best to smile back. Zuko cracks another crab leg with only his fingers and Sokka winces, blurting, “how are you human?” 

“Oh,” Zuko says, raising his single eyebrow. It does interesting and slightly horrible things to the scales on his face. “Because of you? I need sustained human contact to stay like this. Usually casual touching during the day and sleeping in the same bed is more than enough to keep me in this form.”

Sokka blinks slowly at Zuko, the crab dropping from his fingers and falling into the sand. It’s a terrible waste, but Sokka’s not thinking about food right now. He’s thinking about what the elders had told him, and what little records remained after the fire, and of _Yue_ , _blessing him and wishing them safety—_

“It’s just cuddling! _”_ Zuko says quickly. “Skin to skin contact. Please stop looking at me like that.”

Sokka’s mouth snaps shut where it had been hanging open and he groans, dipping his head between his knees. “Why,” he moans, “why do the gods have to torment me.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Zuko says harshly, and then takes a deep breath. His voice is calmer after. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No, I hear it now,” Sokka admits, slightly strangled. “You don’t-- listen, I didn’t know that was a part of,” and he gestures around them, head still between his knees, “this. There was a breakdown in communication somewhere I think.” 

“ _Breakdown in what Yue’s willing to torment me with,”_ he mutters, glaring at the moon’s reflection on the shore. 

“The treaty is clear that only volunteers—” 

“About that,” Sokka says, scratching his beard as he sits back up. He chooses his words carefully, certain things about the tribe sacred, even now. “We lost the treaty shortly after Bato left, and all of the remaining elders aren’t the original ones privy to its contents.” Sokka rubs his eyes, feeling drained. 

“Ah,” Zuko says, quietly. “I… have copies. You’re welcome to read them. Of course. And if you… informed consent is important, and if you didn’t have it, then your decision doesn’t have to hold. It has to be— _someone_. It doesn’t have to be… you.”

Sokka barks out a harsh laugh that makes Zuko flinch back, eyes wide and hurt. “It really, _really_ does.” Sokka says sourly, pushing to his feet, 

“But—”

“Change the topic, you winged jerk,” Sokka snaps, starting to pace.

“If you don’t want to touch me,” Zuko says, face set in stubborn lines, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stays sitting, lets Sokka loom over him. “Then I don’t want you to.”

It doesn’t hide the difference in their strengths.

“Oh, trust me, it’s not that,” Sokka says. “ _You’re_ not gonna want me touching _you._ But there’s nothing we can do about that, because _I’m the only sacrifice._ Understand?” 

If Zuko flies his scaly ass back to the village and drops Sokka off and drags _Katara_ with him, he’s going to— something. Something big. And loud.

“No,” Zuko says. “I don’t understand.”

“Spirits!” Sokka curses again, looking at the sky. 

“Why would I not want you to touch me?”

“Hm, storytime,” Sokka huffs, sitting back down across from Zuko, elbows set on his knees. He steeples his fingers together and hides his face behind them, looking at the fire where it licks above the logs. 

“I didn’t take a wife when I was in the tribe,” he decides to say carefully. He watches Zuko, trying to gauge how much he understands from the statement. 

“Are you even old enough to take a wife?” Zuko asks, curiously.

“I’m twenty-six. I got my first request at fifteen,” he says drly. 

Zuko stares at the fire for a while, twirling a piece of his ridiculously long hair around a finger. Then he looks back at Sokka.

“Yeah, it would be dishonorable to marry when you knew you were going to volunteer,” he says. 

“Volunteer,” Sokka says flatly, and scrubs at his face. Secrets, secrets. He can’t tell the dragon that he’s the last living warrior of his tribe; it makes them too vulnerable, an invitation for invasion. And Zuko is a _Fire Nation_ name. No matter how long it’s been since he was human… “No, that’s not why.”

“Spit it out,” Zuko says, offended. 

“We’re a small tribe,” Sokka finally settles on. “We look the other way when people fall in love who aren’t arranged to, but…there’s an expectation. For children. And I couldn’t-- I couldn’t live that lie, not to any wife, or any child.” 

“Because you’d be leaving them,” Zuko says guiltily. 

“NO!” Sokka yells.

“...because you’re in love with someone already married?” Zuko tries.

Sokka covers his face with his hands and scrubs at it till the skin is raw. “Because I prefer men, and I was expected to have children. And the tribe allows both of those things to coexist, but it would have been a farce for the wife.”

“Why didn’t you just… marry someone who preferred women?” Zuko asks, frowning deeply. “When I was Crown Prince, Mai—” 

“Well!” Sokka yells, “That’s actually really smart! And it’s too late now!” 

The fire crackles between them.

“But it’s not,” Zuko says.

“You were crown prince?” Sokka asks.

Zuko snorts, wipes a hand down his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I was Crown Prince. It was… a while ago.”

“Huh,” he says. “What’d you do to get blessed by the spirits?” 

_“Blessed,”_ Zuko spits out. He fumes, visibly actually fuming, smoke curling out of his fingertips and nostrils. When he speaks, more pours from his mouth than from the fire. “I had a cruel man for a father. That’s what I did to be _blessed._ ”

“Can’t relate,” Sokka says dumbly, and Zuko visibly shudders. 

“Son of Hakoda,” he mutters. He looks up at the sky, and the line of his neck arches beautifully, a parallel of when he’d lowered it as a dragon. “Yeah. Yeah, you wouldn’t. Bato spoke… very highly of him and Kya.”

“So he told you,” Sokka realizes. That makes sense. They spent a lifetime together, and Sokka’s realizing that Zuko’s much more than simply a dragon. Yue, what has he gotten himself into? 

Zuko’s smile is fond, nostalgic. “Yeah. Told me a lot of things. Gregarious man, your uncle.”

“I hope Katara enjoys her time with him,” Sokka says wistfully. He kicks some sand over the fire, deciding to wrap it up for the night, and tosses the crab shells into the ocean.

Zuko cracks an eye open, lolls his head to face Sokka. “You…” and it trails off into near silence. He closes his eyes. “You really don’t have to stay here. I’ll take you home.”

“I really, really do,” Sokka replies darkly.

“Well,” Zuko says, and scrubs a hand over his face. When he removes it, he’s smiling. It’s not particularly happy. “Makes two of us, then.”

They stand in unison, silent agreement to end the meal, and Zuko stops Sokka with a hand on his elbow. “You never said why I wouldn’t want you touching me.” 

Sokka blinks. “Oh. Because you’re beautiful, and I’m not about to deny that for fifty years.” 

Zuko’s smile is genuine then, even if it’s more of a smirk. His fingers spread on Sokka’s arm, until he’s less holding him in place and more caressing the edge of his bicep. 

“Fine by me,” he says.

“What,” Sokka says, face heating.

“You should get ready for bed,” Zuko says, and trails his fingers off Sokka’s arm. He walks towards the ocean, hands at the waist of his pants. “I’m going to take a swim to cool off.”

Sokka swallows dryly, head swimming. “Uh. Okay,” he says weakly, watching Zuko’s clothes drop away, revealing his pale skin to the moonlight. 

Ah, fuck. 

The _moonlight._

“Don’t look at me Yue,” he hisses, and he hears the ghost of laughter on the breeze. Imagined, but maybe not. “I’m serious!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out art for this series at [mellomailbox's blog](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/), and more creativeness at [ang3lba3's blog](https://ang3lba3.tumblr.com/). Also, [Hekka!](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/post/620611504567353344/hekka-the-first-sacrifice-to-zuko-the-great#notes) Check out mello's [dragonpyre tag ](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/tagged/dragonpyre)for other fic specific art.


	2. Chapter 2

The ocean at night is cool. This is good. This is very good, because Zuko’s doing his best to evaporate it.

“What the fuck, why the fuck did I say that, what the fuck am I _doing,”_ he whispers to himself, hitting the water with closed fists. It splashes into his eyes, stings. He does it again, harder.

He shouldn’t stay out here the whole night, picking a fight with the ocean while an absurdly handsome man waits for him in his cottage. Agni, what if he’s _naked?_ What if he’s lounging on the bed, waiting seductively for him?

Zuko thinks about the look on Sokka’s face, the disbelief-excitement-anticipation, and decides to try drowning. 

***

Sokka is naked, lounging on the bed seductively as he waits for Zuko.

He wishes he had a rose to put between his teeth. Katara _swears_ that’s what all the really romantic guys do, ignoring the fact that neither of them have ever seen a real, living rose before. He bets Zuko’s seen dozens of them. He bets he had a bed _made_ of roses when he was Crown Prince. 

Maybe it’s the exoticism of the rose that makes it so romantic. If Zuko’s seen roses, then he should put something in his mouth he _hasn’t_ seen. 

Sokka digs in his pack, ass to the door, frantically looking for something he can be sexy with. 

The door opens. 

He shoves the first thing his hand wraps around in his mouth, and turns around, flourishing it seductively.

“The full moon’s beautiful tonight,” Zuko says, straight faced. Sokka flushes and tries to smile around the whalebone comb in his mouth. It’s very big, and makes him look like he has a dozen tiny fangs. 

“Were you going to help me with my hair?” Zuko asks, and looks touched. 

Yue, Sokka is _so good at this._

“Yewf,” he says, and then spits the comb out onto his hand. He’s not wearing any clothes to wipe the spit off onto, so he just smudges at his with the heel of his palm. “Yes, that is what I was planning to do, that you clearly would enjoy,” he adds. 

Zuko walks towards the bed, but then hesitates at the edge. “I’ll get it wet,” he mutters. Before Sokka can say anything to that— and he has _ideas—_ Zuko takes several steps back. He takes in a deep breath, and then pushes it out.

A cloud of steam poofs around his body as all the water on him vaporizes at once. His hair is a matted cloud down to his ribcage. He looks ridiculous. His pants are wrinkled. 

Sokka’s so turned on. 

“Uh,” Sokka says, approaching Zuko carefully. This close he can finally get a good look at the scales, can see that they’re dusted protectively over old scarring. 

“I’m cool enough to touch,” Zuko says, and starts separating his hair into segments. Sokka has seen Katara brush her hair often enough to know how to help. He does not help.

He presses his chest against the damp skin of Zuko’s back. He’s radiating heat, and when Sokka brushes some of his hair aside his fingers glance over some of the scales. They feel like sun warmed rock, and he can feel the heat leaching from them with every passing second.

“So,” Sokka says, conversationally identical to _Um_ , “I was thinking about the stuff.” He combs carefully through a section of Zuko’s hair, marvelling at how soft and thin it is. Sokka’s hair, like most of the tribespeople, is soft but _thick_ , coarse and curled. Zuko’s is like silk threads dipped in oil. Like rabbit fur, soft and delicate, used for the finest clothing.

“Stuff?” Zuko prompts, sounding unaffected. But the back of his neck is red, and it isn’t just scales.

Well, if he’s embarrassing Zuko, this is going to be a _lot_ easier.

“Yeah,” Sokka says breezily. “You need me to touch you, and I _want_ to touch you, and so we could, y’know. Make an arrangement.” Zuko stiffins underneath Sokka’s hands and he gives the comb some slack, wondering if he’d pulled at a tangle. 

“...arrangement?” Zuko asks. 

“You know. You’ve surely done it dozens of times, stuck here with only one guy? You’re the one who knows how this works,” Sokka says nervously. 

“Uh,” Zuko says, and laughs a little. “Wow.”

He proceeds to not say anything, and Sokka babbles to fill the silence. More words. That’s what this situation needs. All the words he can throw at it.

“It’s like, uh, trading? We both need something. You happen to have something I need, I happen to have something you need. It’s to our mutual advantage to… take advantage of that?” Zuko’s temperature is rising beneath Sokka’s hands, but for some reason it doesn’t seem like a good thing. 

When he turns around, his face is smiling. That’s about the most Sokka can say for it.

“Sure,” Zuko says tightly, “like a _transaction._ ”

He pushes his hands around Sokka’s waist, nuzzles his face into his neck. His breath is hot and wet where it touches him, mouth moving over his skin with every word.

It feels wrong. He hasn’t known Zuko long, but he thinks hearing that tone and feeling this tension would feel wrong on anyone. 

“Usually, you know, it’s a bit more romantic,” Zuko muses, and walks them towards a wall. When Sokka’s pushed against it, he drops to his knees, puts his hands on Sokka’s hips, and _woah that’s a lot of dragon really close to his dick._ “But there’s a real allure to being reminded neither of us have any options. I can see what you’re saying. And it doesn’t mean anything, of course, because I’ve done it _dozens of times.”_

“Woah!” Sokka says, sliding to the left and out of Zuko’s grip. Zuko turns his head to look at him, the false smile falling into a scowl. 

“What? Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks. 

“Not really!” Sokka answers, backing away.

Zuko throws his hands into the air, rolling his eyes. “Well now you’re just being impossible! Do you want to act like I’m your whore or not?”

What? What gave Zuko _that_ impression? 

“I thought we were both on the same page!” Sokka says defensively. Zuko rises to his feet, hair falling in front of his face and shoulders bunched up to his ears. He wraps his arms around his middle and Sokka can’t help but think he looks _small._

“Then maybe you should have _read the pamphlet!”_ he yells. “I’m a _person._ Talk to me like one. Why is that so hard for you?”

“You’re not?” Sokka’s mouth says, and then his brain catches up. “Wait! I mean,” he’s got his palms up but Zuko’s already shoving past him, steaming, literal steam curling off of his skin.

“I have to,” Zuko spits out, but doesn’t finish the sentence. He waves a hand at Sokka apologetically as he goes out the door, and the hand trails flame. 

“I didn’t mean that offensively!” Sokka calls after him helplessly. 

There’s no reply, and Sokka finds himself standing in a stranger’s house, bare assed. Literally _and_ figuratively.

He really shouldn’t be a poet. 

***

“THAT,” Zuko yells underwater. There’s ocean in his lungs, and yelling is not comfortable. He doesn’t care. He’s a dragon, he’ll survive it. He always survives it. “DID NOT. GO. WELL.”

The ocean spits him up on the sand with an uncharacteristic show of opinion.

After Zuko’s done hacking up and steaming out the last of the water, he makes several rude gestures at it. 

“And,” _hack,_ “Fuck YOU TOO, LA!”

The ocean beats gently at the shore, and at Zuko on it, cool salt water over his feet and back again. Zuko sighs, puts his head in his knees.

Fuck. He knew there’d be an asshole eventually. But he can’t afford for there to be an asshole. He has agreements to honor, he has production to ramp back up now that he has a helper again, he has _oaths._ So what he can really afford to do is suck it up, apologize, and keep his temper. 

Otherwise they’re never going to get out the chore wheel.

***

Sokka grabs his grooming kit and heads for the stream he’d clocked earlier in the day. There’s a gentle bend to the stream with generous outcroppings of rock to set up on. At the South Pole, the idea of bathing in the evening would be suicide. 

Here there’s just a gentle chill, welcome after the heat he’s endured so far. 

So he lays out the leather roll and his small mirror, immediately starting with the shaving. He’s not sure why he’s maintaining his wolftail, blade scraping gently at the sides of his head. It’s a sign of a warrior, of honor and duty to his people. 

It means nothing, here. 

But he shaves it, and his jaw, leaving only the little patch of hair on his chin that he started growing specifically to annoy Katara and kept cause it makes him look distinguished. 

“And let that be a reminder to you,” he says to his reflection, pointing the razor at it. 

Yeah. That’s why he maintains it, in a place where it only means something to _him_. 

He wants to sit Zuko down and tell him how it isn’t _fair._ He wants to hit him with the reality outside of this island— watch him crushed by it, the same way Sokka’s been crushed by it his entire life. He wants to go _home,_ and if that’s not possible, then he at least wants an enemy. Something villainous and monstrous and clearly in the wrong, something he can fight with no remorse. 

Instead he’s got… Zuko. 

***

Zuko creeps into the cottage when he feels tired. 

It’s not normal exhaustion, it’s the kind of tired that sits deep in his bones and will drop him where he stands. That he’ll wake from different.

But there’s still time, if Sokka is here, so he goes back to the cottage.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to be able to lick his wounds in peace, to give them both the distance and privacy that they need. 

The first week is always the hardest. 

Sokka’s in the cottage, and Zuko’s not sure if he should feel relief or dread. Is he here to fight? Apologize? Shut up and let Zuko shove their skin together while they both dissociate until they fall asleep?

“I’m a jackass,” Sokka grumbles from where he’s laying on the bed. He’s on his stomach, pillow bunched under his head, and the blanket dips low enough that Zuko can see the waist of Sokka’s shorts. 

So he’s dressed. 

“You’re under a curse too?” Zuko asks, pretending at shock. Apologize, then. The dread deepens, but he lets the door swing shut behind him, takes careful steps towards the bed. “Maybe we have more in common than we thought.”

“I’m cursed to be an older brother and devastatingly handsome,” Sokka sighs, peeking at Zuko over the edge of the pillow. “It makes for a complicated personality.” 

Zuko settles on the edge of the bed. He feels tired enough to keel over. 

“Like I said,” he says, and presses a single finger along Sokka’s shoulder. He immediately feels more awake. “We have more in common than we thought.”

Sokka looks like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it, instead rolling to his side and lifting up the blanket in a silent summon. “You’re lookin’ pretty rough, buddy,” he says. 

“Maybe we _don’t_ have that much in common,” Zuko says, and flops onto the mattress, lets the rebound carry him straight into Sokka’s chest. “Since you’re so smooth, and all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sokka says sardonically, but he’s smiling. “I’m a real gentleman. The way you--” he stops himself and bites his lip. 

Zuko wraps an arm over Sokka, lets his fingers rest in the hollow of Sokka’s spine. “It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. We’re fine.”

“But I’m so great with the talking,” Sokka mutters. He folds his arms comfortably around Zuko, tucking him under his chin like this is normal. Like they lay together in intimacy every night. 

“Wow, another difference,” Zuko says. He pushes at his pillow until his neck is propped up as comfortably as it’s going to get. “I’m shit at it.”

“Speaking of bad talking, I’m gonna start,” Sokka says lightly. “So, you know in the tribes? We all share huts, and in those huts we share beds. Whole families, usually. So this,” and he tightens his arms, “isn’t weird for me outside of the whole.” He doesn’t finish, and Zuko can feel his heartbeat speed up where they’re pressed together. 

“Sokka. If you want,” Zuko bites down on the specifics, “If you _want_ something. I am absolutely sincere when I say that you just have to ask. There’s… there is very little that I would deny you.”

Sokka’s silent for a long while. Zuko realizes that he forgot to snuff the lantern, but the gentle flicker along the cottage walls gives him something to look at other than Sokka’s profile. 

“Obligation isn’t a good look on anyone,” Sokka finally says. “Go to sleep.”

“Impossible,” Zuko mumbles. But Sokka is warm against him, and he really had pushed it far too close, and he’s asleep before he can finish his sentence.

It’s not like he hasn’t said it already, anyways. 

***

Moonlight streams into the room. Zuko is snoring against his collarbone. Apparently that’s just a thing he does.

“Hey,” Sokka whispers. Zuko doesn’t move, and his breathing doesn’t change.

“Hey, Yue,” he whispers, keeping an eye on Zuko. He snuffles and buries his nose more firmly against Sokka’s neck, chasing an itch. Something in him aches. 

There’s a water basin in the corner, a washcloth folded at its side. They’re probably meant to wash their faces and feet with it, but for now it works to reflect the moon’s image in a way that Yue can access. Hopefully. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s spent an evening talking to himself. 

“I don’t know what my duty is here,” Sokka whispers, throat burning. “I don’t know what Zuko needs from me. I don’t know what my tribe needs.” A tear courses over his cheek, and he feels a cool hand touch his forehead. He shuts his eyes. 

“Sokka,” a voice says. 

“My spirit, I am honored by your presence,” he recites gratefully. 

“Your honor withstands,” Yue recites back. It sounds better when she does it. “Sokka, Chief of the Southern Water Tribe. Why are you being such a little butt-faced baby?” 

“ _Yue!”_

“Oh no, I’m Sokka and I’m living on a tropical island with the hottest man I’ve ever seen, figuratively _and_ literally,” Yue says, and drapes herself across the bed beside Zuko in a dramatic swoon. 

“You are the _moon spirit,_ ” Sokka reminds her. She ignores him. She usually does.

“I am burdened to be your guide through these _hardships_ ,” she sighs, pouting blue lips at him. Her hair floats around her, moved by invisible tides, and Sokka remembers the story she’d told him of her sacrifice, eternally drowned to rescue La the ocean spirit from the deadly fate of her predecessor. 

She waves a hand at Zuko’s abs. Zuko snorts a little in his sleep. “These horribly, horribly hard times.”

“You’re making it difficult for me to seek guidance,” Sokka sighs. He’s blushing, because it’s Yue and she can always make him blush. 

Yue just smiles at him, and then winks. “I’m on your side, Sokka. I would never send you into anything you can’t handle. I know being polite is straining your limits—” 

“It’s a waste of time,” Sokka argues, “all of this is a _waste of--”_

“Hmm,” Yue says, and taps her chin. “Well, you’re rude enough to interrupt _the moon spirit_ , so normally I’d agree. But this is where you’re needed.”

Sokka works his jaw, desperately trying to balance his dedication and admiration for the spirit with their lifelong friendship. He _wants_ to shout at her, to curse her out. He can’t bring himself to do so, even now, at his lowest. 

“I know it’s hard to understand,” Yue says. She looks sad, suddenly. “I know.”

“Why are you with me? If this is all my life was meant for, why spend your time with _me_?” Sokka asks helplessly. 

“Oh, wolftail,” she says fondly, tugging at his hair. “You’re always meant for so much more than you know.” Zuko snuffles and snores loudly, shifting in Sokka’s arms. 

He glances down at him, just for a moment, and when he looks back up, Yue is gone.

The end of his wolftail is cold and dripping seawater where her fingers had pinched it.

“That didn’t help!” Sokka calls after her. Far too loud. Zuko startles awake.

“Bato?” he asks sleepily. For some reason it wounds Sokka, the word landing like a knife through the ribs. He sucks in a breath. 

“No,” he rasps, “Sorry.” 

“Oh. Jackass,” Zuko says, and then relaxes. “G’to sleep.”

“...Sure,” Sokka agrees, and despite his best efforts not to, does. 

***

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Zuko says, smacking him lightly on the cheek. Sokka blinks groggily at him and numbly knocks away another pat. 

“Listen, we didn’t get through the chore wheel yesterday, and if we don’t at least start on it today then I’m going to have to remake the yearly calendar. I _hate_ remaking the yearly calendar, Sokka.” Despite his words, Zuko looks thrilled at the very concept.

“What,” Sokka says, rubbing at his eyes. It’s a little past noon, if the way the sun’s coming in through the window is anything to go by. He shoves his face in the pillow just as Zuko pulls it out from under him. 

“Oh no, you’re too tired, I’ll have to remake it,” Zuko says brightly. “What a shame. Unavoidable. Tragic. Time and effort wasted. Hup-hup, hut boy, it’s breakfast time.”

“It’s _lunchtime,_ ” he disagrees, but Zuko’s got his number already, the mention of food setting off his internal systems to _awake! Feed us!_

“I’ll show you how to harvest the hen-cat eggs,” Zuko says, and all of Sokka’s hopes about mutual understanding come crashing down. Farming is _girl_ and _kid_ stuff. He hasn’t had to farm in _years._

“Or I could do some hunting,” he offers, thinking of the beluga-porcupine jerky waiting for him in his pack. The idea of chewing on that while taking a bow to the cougar-elk sounds like a pretty enjoyable start of the day, actually. 

“You’re in an agricultural society of two now, Sokka,” Zuko says. “But if you really want to take a pass, I can mark you down for mucking out the cow-moose pen.”

Sokka blinks sleepily a couple of times before rolling over and away from Zuko. 

“I’ll have to redo the monthly as well,” Zuko says delightedly, and Sokka hears him leave the cottage. His footsteps sound alternatively too heavy and too light for his body.

“I don’t know what those words mean,” Sokka grumbles suspiciously. 

***

Glinda, daughter of Glenda, is throwing an absolute fucking fit. 

This is most of why Zuko had tried to get Sokka up, actually. She _hates it_ when he goes more than a day without seeing her, and her mother disappearing hadn’t helped. They loved to fight every sunset, and Glinda loved to try and rip Zuko’s arms off every dawn. Her routine is destroyed.

“This is the daughter of the hen-cat you murdered,” Zuko tells Sokka solemnly. 

“Your mom was very tasty,” Sokka tells her cheerfully, sticking his finger through the netting. She bites it and he yelps, pulling it back. 

“I think it would be constructive for everyone if you shut the fuck up,” Zuko says, brightly. As in, he’s glowing a little. Sokka laughs at him. 

“You’re insane,” he reminds him, standing and twirling the fishing spear he’d nicked on their way over. 

“You,” Zuko says, and then holds up a finger. He turns around and walks away until he’s sure he can’t accidentally hit Sokka with fire if he loses it talking. He turns around. “Are going to muck out the cow-moose.”

“I,” Sokka says, heading towards the shore, “am going fishing. We’ll work out the rest later.” 

Zuko shrugs. He’d figured he’d pull something like that.

If Sokka wants to muck it out _after_ they’ve digested lunch, that’s on him.

***

He’s not trying to be a jackass on purpose. He tells Yue as much, even if she’s asleep or trapped in the spirit world or whatever happens to her when the sun is out. Is the sun a spirit too? It is, isn’t it? Agni, that’s the spirit the Fire Nation worships? 

He should ask Zuko about that. Funny how they worship opposite spirits, yet are more comfortable being awake in each others’ spirit’s domain. 

“It’s, uh, it’s,” he rattles around in his brain for something that can describe the canyon between his understanding of the world and Zuko’s. Something an Earth Nation trader had said years ago occurs to him. “Cultural divide! Yes. That’s it.”

He spears a few fish easily, popping them off and dropping them in a pouch he’d commandeered from the cottage. “It’s just that he says things and I wanna bully him till he stops. Y’know. Normal guy stuff. It has nothing to do with you acting all sage and knowing and me being --”

The ocean doesn’t speak, but it stills the ripples from his spears, reflecting his own face extremely clearly.

“That’s cheating,” he says. He doesn’t talk to _La,_ he talks to _Yue._

The water begins to ripple again, starting in a shrug like motion around his shoulders.

“Uh huh,” Sokka says, deeply unimpressed. “Thank you for the food, La.”

“I didn’t take you for a religious kind of person,” Zuko says from behind him. Sokka totally knew he was there and isn’t startled at all. He turns around and glares. 

“You scared all the fish away,” Sokka accuses, demonstrating the lie by spearing another one. There are _so many_ fish here. It’s like they want to be eaten!

“Not possible,” Zuko says. He’s leaning against a tree, arms folded as he watches him. “Are you done sulking? Or… whatever this is?”

“I,” Sokka says, about to argue but seeing the trap for what it is. He changes course. “I was just talking to La. You’re the one who interrupted me.” 

“Okay.” Zuko digs his feet deeper in the sand, and then just stands there. Staring.

Sokka stares back.

“Well? Is the ocean shy?” Zuko teases, gesturing at where it’s just being an ocean.

“See how the tide is pulling away?” Sokka asks, and gestures. “It’s because she doesn’t wanna look at your ugly face.” That was kinda rude, and Zuko’s hand moves to touch self-consciously at his scaled up eye. He smiles, though, and cocks his hip against the tree. 

“She moves back though,” he says, and points at how Sokka’s pants hang low on his hips. They’re not proper pants, they’re what he wears under his furs to soak up the sweat. “Probably because she misses the moon.”

Sokka doesn’t get it, thinking of Yue, but the snicker that escapes from Zuko combined with the helpful lapping of water against his ass clues him in. 

“Hey!” he says to the ocean, “Who’s side are you on!” 

“Your backside,” Zuko says, laughter in his voice. He’s still touching a spot under his eye where the scales are particularly thick, but it looks more absentminded than self-conscious. Sokka thinks he can see the scales moving back and forth, which is—

He looks back out at the ocean, instead. 

“Har har,” Sokka says, belated.

“I can keep up with most of the chores on my own for a few more days,” Zuko says, awkwardly. “If you need. Time.”

Well, now he feels like a _real_ jackass. First he insults the guy, and then Zuko is still trying to be considerate? Sokka sighs and splashes out of the water and up to Zuko, his undershorts sticking revealingly to his body. He doesn’t adjust them. 

“I’m being a jerk,” Sokka says, probably not for the last time. 

“...so do you want the days or not?” Zuko asks. He’s flushed, eyebrow twitching as he maintains direct eye contact.

“I never needed them,” Sokka admits, wiping sweat off of his brow. “I don’t like chores. I like hunting and fishing and building.” 

Zuko rubs at his face. “How good are you with your hands?” he asks.

Sokka smirks and waggles two fingers at Zuko. “I’ve been told I’m _excellent_ with my hands by _many_ sources.” 

“Oh,” Zuko says, and looks relieved. “Great. You’ll be making the bracelets, then.”

Sokka’s grin falls. “The what?” Zuko’s ignoring him, gaze drifted away as he thinks. 

“And someone needs to snip the leaves off the fire root and get them ready for transport, I’ve had Bato on that duty half-time for years, there’s packaging and butter, mayo, cheese making…” he blinks, refocuses on Sokka, who’s frowning. “Okay. We can make this work. We’ll play to your strengths. I wish you had read the pamphlet, it had a quiz in the back.”

“You are,” Sokka says slowly, “insane. And I am in hell.” He storms away.

“So you’re taking those days?” Zuko calls after him. “I can do five!”

“No! I’m _mucking the cow-moose,”_ He calls back, storming more aggressively than he needs to through the brush. He’s been de-facto Chief and real Chief for most of his life. He’s not used to taking orders, least of all for _chores._

“Wait! I have to show you how so they don’t kill you!” Zuko yells.

Sokka steps in a mud paddy, barefoot, and curses. 

***

The cow-moose don’t kill Sokka. 

More’s the pity, since it _feels_ like they did.

“Put me out of my misery,” he moans. “I can’t take another fifty years of this, Zuko.”

Zuko is sitting at the small worktable at the end of the bed. He’s separating some kind of extremely stinky green plant, root from stem from leaves from rare flowers. 

“Why are you doing that in the place where we sleep,” Sokka bitches.

“Have you smoked from a pipe before?” Zuko asks, a nonsequiter. 

“We have pipes,” Sokka snaps. His head is _killing_ him and Zuko won’t even do the decent thing and give him a proper argument. He keep humming absently to himself as he works, lips curled benignly. 

Zuko curls a few leaves into his palm. “It’s medicine. It will help. You can smoke it in the pipe, but there’s a more direct way. If you wanted it.”

“Hnng,” Sokka says, unwilling to commit to anything without a fight. 

“I would burn it in my mouth and breathe it into yours,” Zuko says bluntly. “It’s about twice as effective and far faster.”

That’s-- well, if Sokka wasn’t making himself so miserable right now he’d be twice as turned on as he is at the notion. As it is, he’s _very_ into it. 

“Fine,” he agrees, and tries not to sound excited. He’d washed off the grime in the river before coming to the cottage for food, only to find that Zuko _hadn’t_ been cooking lunch, because it’s not his job to feed Sokka and he was in the middle of something. Which is fair. It’s _not_ his job to feed Sokka, he’s just realizing more rapidly than he’d anticipated the sort of privileged lifestyle he’d led as Chief of an entire village. 

Typically, you’d provide the food, the women would cook it, and everyone would share. There’s no women here, though. No established hierarchy for Sokka to insert himself the head of. 

Just...Zuko. 

Zuko, who had been rooting around in some drawers, looks up slowly. He squints at Sokka. 

“I’m saying I have to seal my lips over yours and breathe out,” Zuko says. “While you breathe in.”

“Yeah,” Sokka says. His lips feel dry, so he licks them.

“Right,” Zuko says, and shivers. He starts shutting drawers. “Uh. Other side effects include hunger, euphoria, and a sort of… lowered impulse control. I’ll make you some food.”

“Oh,” Sokka says, “thank you. You don’t have to do that.” 

“I’m more used to the effects,” Zuko says, and stands. He walks to the edge of the bed where Sokka’s face is hanging off, kneels so that they’re face level. “It’s less dangerous if I do it.”

“Dangerous?” Sokka parrots. 

“Hunger, euphoria, lowered impulse control,” Zuko laughs a little. “Hekka stuck his hand in a pot of boiling water to get at the potatoes faster.”

“Sounds like spice flower,” Sokka muses. “We smoke that during religious ceremonies. It’s supposed to bring us closer to the spirits, but it just makes us hungry and want to dance a lot.”

“It’s a similar plant, from what I understand,” Zuko says. He looks at the leaves in his hand, arranges them into an orderly folded bunch that will fit on his tongue easily. “Let me know when you’re ready?”

Sokka open his mouth and sticks out his tongue, feeling a rush of satisfaction at the way Zuko blushes in response. 

“Your uh,” he says, “Your tongue should be… inside. Your mouth.”

“Picky,” Sokka grumbles.

Zuko puts the leaves in his mouth, and then his face does that glowing thing. It doesn’t look like it hurts, eyes closed and only the tiniest furrow of concentration between his brows, but it hits Sokka— he’s _on fire._ The inside of his mouth is _on fire._ He’s not glowing, he’s holding so many flames in his mouth that he’s lit up like a lantern.

As subtly as he can he moves the blanket over his lap. 

The glow slowly fades, until Zuko opens his eyes again and Sokka gets to watch the gold drain out of the whites of his eyes.

“Woah,” Sokka says.

Zuko points at his own mouth, at Sokka’s, a silent question in his face. He’s not breathing.

Sokka’s heart is pounding in his chest. He opens his mouth again, obediently keeping his tongue inside. 

Zuko leans forward. At first, he just presses his closed lips inelegantly around Sokka’s front teeth. But just as Sokka’s about to complain, he seals their lips together, so quickly that Sokka misses the actual moment of contact.

It _burns_ , but he’s expecting it and manages to pull away, to keep his lips closed as he coughs. The smoke had been _fire_ moments before, and Sokka wishes he could taste it on Zuko’s tongue. 

Then he focuses on the way the burn moves down his throat to his lungs, eyes watering at the sting, and he slowly exhales the smoke out of his nose. He coughs again, and Zuko hands him some tea-- his palm is hot when their hands brush, he must have used his skin to boil it-- and it only takes a couple of sips to soothe his throat. 

“Ha,” Sokka rasps, head already fogging, warmth wrapping around the ache and burying it, “I looked like you just now.” 

He feels _good._ He grins at Zuko, lopsided, and hands him back the ceramic cup of tea so that he can return to hanging upside down on the bed. 

Zuko smiles, and upside down it looks like a frown, which makes Sokka cackle, and then he thinks _he should turn that frown upside down,_ and he laughs even harder.

“Gods, you’re just like him,” Zuko says, and his thumb brushes a hair that’s sticking to Sokka’s cheek off so that it hangs loosely. “Right choice not to have you cook.”

“I can _roast_ ,” Sokka argues, bursting into a fit of giggles. “But not-- not as good as _you_ can r-r-” he can’t get it out, reaching for Zuko’s hand and clutching it tightly, an anchor or else he’ll fall off of the bed. 

_“Just_ like him,” Zuko says, squeezing his fingers gently. “How’s it hanging, hut boy?”

“Mmm,” Sokka says, smiling. He thinks about it, thinks about it _really hard._

Then he bursts into more giggles. “A little to the left,” he snorts-laughs, and Zuko’s petting at his forehead gently, keeping Sokka’s hair out of his mouth.

“There’s the difference. His were a little to the right,” Zuko says. He squeezes Sokka’s hand once more, and then tries to untangle their fingers. Which means that Sokka has to chase his hand, obviously. 

“I wanna dance,” Sokka declares, threading their fingers together. Now that he’s thought it, he realizes it’s a brilliant idea. It’s imperative that they dance _right now_ , because dancing means happy and celebrations and joy. 

“Can you even stand?” Zuko snorts. 

“Yes!” Sokka says. And then, “No.”

He thinks about this problem for a moment, before having an epiphany. 

“Zuko, get on the mattress.” 

“No,” Zuko says.

“I’ve invented a new dance,” Sokka says.

“You’ve reinvented the _oldest_ dance,” Zuko corrects.

Sokka waggles his eyebrows at Zuko and tugs at his hand. “Zuko. Zuuuuuko. Zukoooooooo.” 

“You’re flying on fire root,” Zuko says. “No.”

Sokka plays his lotus tile. “But,” he says, lips curling into a smile despite his efforts at a pout. “You said that you wouldn’t deny me anything.”

Zuko’s face flushes, and Sokka’s taken aback by the frown that causes, unpleasantness in the tightness of his eyes. 

“No, no,” Sokka tells him, reaching up to press his thumb against the corner of his lips. “Stop that.” 

_“You_ stop that,” Zuko says, and bats his hands down, holds them against the mattress. Sokka can’t help it.

He wiggles his eyebrows again.

“You— _you,_ ” Zuko sputters, and lets him go, pushing to his feet. “You just— _stay there_ , and I will bring you food.” 

“What a full service woman,” Sokka coos, batting for Zuko’s hand as he pulls it away. He wants to eat so badly he almost chews on his tongue. At the same time, he needs to keep touching Zuko. He doesn’t remember why; just knows it’s _important._

“That’s me, the dragon bride,” Zuko says dryly. It has the tone of a private joke, a funnier story than the ones that Sokka can make up for it. He heads for the kitchen, which is more like, ‘he takes four steps and is inconceivably far away in the kitchen’. 

“Noooo,” Sokka whispers, reaching for him. “My duty. Now you’re gonna break the house.” He wets his lips and focuses on his breathing for a few moments, entranced with the little clicking sound his throat makes. 

“Cause. Cause you’re gonna turn into a dragon and. You’re big.” He clarifies. 

“My honor demands that I don’t ravish you while you’re intoxicated and injured,” Zuko says. He’s taking things out of cupboards. Food things? They’re mostly bags and small containers. Further investigation is warranted. 

“Ravish me,” Sokka says seriously. “With some radishes. Ravished by radishes.” He does his best to sit up, but nothing happens. 

“Happy to oblige,” Zuko says, and he’s laughing. “Agni, you’re just a little chick-kit.”

“ _Pickled_ radishes!” he shouts, delighted by the heavy clunk of a glass jar. “It’s my _birthday._ ” 

“I’ll mark it on the chore wheel,” Zuko says.

“The chore wheel,” Sokka says, struggling to sit up. Everything is shifting, like being stranded on a floe. But Katara’s gotten Sokka stuck on plenty of those over the years, and he quickly gets his balance and his feet under them. Zuko drops what he’s doing and tucks himself under Sokka’s arm just before his legs give out on him. 

“Woah!” Sokka shouts. 

“You need to lay down,” Zuko scolds. 

“Is this like, surgery grade herbs?” Sokka wonders. 

“Yes. Also, your muscles are still exhausted,” Zuko says, and tips Sokka back onto the bed. Sokka lands on his back, Zuko standing between his spread knees and glaring down at him. He looks alarmingly like Katara staring down a disorderly patient.

“Stop looking like Katara so that I can objectify you between my legs,” Sokka accuses. 

Zuko blushes some more and Sokka cheers silently. Or maybe not so silently, if the way that Zuko’s blush deepens is any indication. 

He looks _nothing_ like Katara when he blushes. Katara physically cannot turn that color. Sokka’s not sure he’s seen anyone besides frostbitten Earth Nation traders turn that color red.

Sokka’s lips curl up again and he purrs, “Zuuuuuko. Zuko. C’mere, _Zuko._ ” He reaches for him with grabby hands but doesn’t actually grab. 

Zuko flattens a hand over his eyes. “Sokka. You have a choice to make,” he says in a strained voice. He’s immovable. “Me—”

“You!”

“Or pickled radishes,” Zuko finishes. He keeps his hand over his eyes.

“You’re _evil,_ ” Sokka wails immediately. He feels alarmingly betrayed, scrambling for a way around it. “What if I have pickled radishes _on_ you?” 

Zuko removes his hand, probably sensing weakness. “No. But if you choose pickled radishes in the next ten seconds, I can give you beluga-porcupine roe to dip them in.”

“Deal,” Sokka says, reaching out to shake Zuko’s hand. He grips it tightly and brings the knuckles to his lips. “The pickled radishes won’t last forever, you know.” 

“I know,” Zuko says, and sighs. He tugs his hand away. “I will, though.”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, and flops back onto the bed. He grins at the ceiling. There’s something nice about that thought. An eternity to choose pickled radishes over Zuko, and he’ll always still have time to choose Zuko later. 

Zuko drops some pickled radishes within arms reach, and a small container of beluga-porcupine roe. Sokka nabs them, wrenches them open. It takes long enough that Zuko has time to settle back down at his work table, the steady sounds of him snipping and shuffling plant life around.

“You could sell this stuff,” Sokka decides, meaning the fire-root. He’s not letting _anyone_ near his pickled radishes. Zuko laughs at him. 

“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” Zuko says, carefully finishing the ties on the last shipment set to go out at the end of the week. 


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, Zuko’s still asleep when Sokka wakes. He’s plastered against Sokka’s front, sweat and drool sticking their skin together as the sun heats the cottage through the window. Or maybe it’s Zuko’s body that’s warming it, he’s not quite sure anymore. 

He’s been here for a week now. Only… 2599 weeks to go.

“Hey,” Sokka says, poking Zuko’s cheek. He wants to be rude, because Zuko’s always smacking his arm or pulling his hair or yanking off the covers to wake him. He _means_ to be rude. But he ends up touching him gently, stroking the soft curve of skin over his cheekbone. 

Zuko, still mostly asleep, twists his head and shoves Sokka’s entire finger in his mouth, against the inside of his cheek. “Stop or I bite,” he says, voice muffled.

“I ain’t scared a’ you,” Sokka replies fondly, tugging at his teeth. “Dragonbreath. Yuck.” 

Zuko chomps down very lightly, and then releases him and rolls onto his back. _“Uuuugh,_ ” he moans as he stretches. 

“I’ve been maimed,” Sokka moans, holding his wrist and pretending that he’s not staring at the arc of Zuko’s spine or his pink, cute nipples. Nope. He’s pretending there’s blood gushing from his finger instead, rolling around the sheets. 

“I could kiss it better,” Zuko says, and snaps his teeth in Sokka’s direction.

 _That_ takes Sokka places--Zuko’s mouth over his fingers, tongue velvet warm, teeth scraping playfully-- and he blushes, pulling his pillow over his lap. “I can’t help with chores today,” he says, holding out his hand, index bent inwards in a mime of a stump. “Wounded.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. He snatches out with his hand, viper-fast, and grabs Sokka’s wrist. Puckering his lips, he presses a loud kiss to Sokka’s index finger, and then pries it straight. 

“There,” Zuko says. 

“Hnnng,” Sokka says intelligently, and rolls himself into a blanket cocoon. 

“Do you need to pee?” Zuko asks. “I call the woods on the east side of the house.”

Sokka reaches an arm out from his blanket cocoon to smother himself with a pillow. He does not want to think about the multiple accidental piss dick sightings, just for _one morning._

“I’m going to take that as you acknowledging my dibs,” Zuko decides. 

When Zuko returns some minutes later Sokka’s still in bed, sweating and trying to will his woody down. He should have escaped when he had the chance, taken care of himself on the other side of the stream by the opposite shore where Zuko _probably_ won’t hear him. Maybe he should investigate the caves? 

“You can’t call the bed to piss in,” Zuko says. His voice has that incredibly serious and disapproving cant to it that means he’s got his hands on his hips and thinks he’s being funny. “That’s against the rules.”

“You and your _rules_ ,” Sokka says, muffled by the blanket but grasping onto the banter like a lifeline. 

“Every day you don’t read the pamphlet I make up five more,” Zuko says cheerfully. He rips the blankets off Sokka then, effortlessly overpowering him. “It’s a beautiful day, Sokka! Get up and smell the hen-cats! Pet the flowers!”

“Sleep in the bed,” Sokka says, rolling onto his stomach. “I should never have woken you. I should have dreamt blissfully in slobbery-peace.” 

“Sokka,” Zuko says. Now it’s just his normal serious voice. “We’re behind.”

“Behind on _what,”_ Sokka asks, “And if you say it was in the PAMPHLET—” 

“Of course it was in the pamphlet!” Zuko says, throwing his hands up. 

“You’re running on this weird anxiety pressure nonsense like you’ve got _responsibilities._ Look around, Zuko, you’re living in a _vacation-home._ ” Sokka means to joke, but it comes out in a similarly _serious_ tone. 

Zuko’s face starts to glow. He turns, smoking slightly, rifling through a drawer in the small kitchenette before he spins triumphantly. He’s brandishing a small circular piece of wood that has cut outs, to place pieces of paper. Sokka can’t see what they are from this distance.

“Would a vacation home have THIS?!” Zuko asks, and waggles the wooden circle. It rattles a little. 

Sokka shrugs, and Zuko stomps closer. He’s still glowing, but it’s a soft kind of glow. He’s barely smoking. It’s probably safe to just stay where he is on the bed. (It’s not safe. Living with a dragon is destroying his ability to gauge danger.)

“Look,” Zuko says, and shoves it right under Sokka’s nose. 

It’s a wooden circle, still, with cut outs to place pieces of paper. There’s several going out like tickets from the center, and then two thin ones in the very middle. The thin ones in the middle read:

MAKE SOKKA READ THE PAMPHLET

FIRE ROOT SHIPMENT IN 2 DAYS

The ones around the edges are just… daily chores. These are chores. In a circle. In a _wheel._ This is the chore wheel. Zuko has painstakingly illustrated every one. They’re… that’s a tiny portrait of Sokka mucking out the cow-moose. He’s only been here a week, _how._

“Huh,” Sokka says, unimpressed, and lays his head on his arms in lieu of his pillow. “Neat.” 

“It’s a _chore wheel_. To help keep us organized with all of the agriculture and farming we do on the island. I have daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly,” Zuko’s counting on his fingers, now, “and yearly ones. The tickets go into a tracking book where I keep the numbers on all of the accounts.” 

Sokka’s sure he’s told Zuko this before, but it clearly needs repeating. “You’re insane, you know? I don’t think you know that.” 

“And,” Zuko says, like it’s his lotus tile. He spins something on the back of the wheel with a weird gear sound, and then lets it go. 

The chore wheel starts playing a cheery tune.

“Once you finish everything it will play a song,” he says. Then he just stares at Sokka. Intently. Sokka’s not really sure what Zuko’s expecting from him, so he simply shrugs again, chin on his folded arms. 

“That’s… something,” he offers weakly. It’s not like he’s showing him a wicked polar-dog fang or some cool knives or anything. Hell, even some of Zuko’s embroidered robes had sick as hell silk imagery on the backs of dragons and flames and panda-monkeys. 

This is just a to-do list. 

Zuko’s entire body kind of just. Stops moving for a while. This is fairly normal— sometimes he’ll have a thought and it’ll shut his entire body down. Sokka silently suspects that it’s because he usually doesn’t think, and a sudden one can send him into shock. 

“Ah,” Zuko says, smiling widely. The hand holding the chore wheel darts over his shoulder, launching it through the open window. Sokka yells in surprise as the glass shatters, but Zuko’s just babbling at the exact same volume and backing out of the cottage. “Well that was just a prototype anyways so I’ll show you the finished one when it’s better and finished later, much later,” he hits the closed door, and keeps going. The door is no longer closed.

“You will like it a lot, and it will be the real finished one,” he promises, catching the door where it’s split from one of its hinges. “Unlike that piece of shit, haha, HAHA, that was the RIGHT opinion, HAHA OKAY I’M GOING TO GO PEE.”

“But you just went?” Sokka says.

“HAHA,” Zuko says loudly, and then runs away.

“I don’t think this is just about the chore wheel!” Sokka calls after him. 

“You’re still a ssssmart one!” Zuko calls back. There’s a crashing sound, distinctly familiar now; Zuko’s body hitting the shore in an explosion of steam.

Maybe he should read that book that Bato wrote him. 

Zuko’s going to be splashing around for a while, so Sokka pisses and grabs some of the leftover fish from the roast the night before and chomps on it as he digs through the chest meant for his belongings. 

The first page of Bato’s book reads: HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON. Directly underneath is a doodle of something that is.. _probably_ meant to be a dragon, and not a poorly drawn polar-dog. He’s pretty sure those are wings.

Yue, but he’s going to need to reward himself for this. He puts down the journal and pilfers some of the beluga-procupine roe from the hidden cache underneath the cupboard. He snatches some pickled oysters too, preparing to get the room good and smelly to keep Zuko away. 

***

To the casual observer, your new dragon may seem insane, touched in the head, suffering from winter-sun madness, absolutely lemur-bat shit bonkers.

I’m not telling you that you’re wrong. I think, in retrospect, that the solution to this ‘problem’ is to also become insane, touched in the head, suffering from winter-sun madness, absolutely lemur-bat shit bonkers.

But that’s a later chapter. 

This chapter is about how to tell what Zuko’s trying to say to you. Since he almost never says what he’s thinking, feeling, or doing, this can be a challenging hurdle for the beginner. The most important thing to remember: Zuko is indirect, and he will misdirect you. If you’re focusing on how crazy he’s acting, you’re not focusing on why he’s acting crazy. Usually it’s your fault. Get used to that sooner rather than later. If you’re trying to have a conversation, it’s important to remember that he’s hearing every single word you’re saying. Every single one. The dumb jokes, the rude comments, the Water Tribe slang and casual turn of phrase. 

And he takes every one of them literally. 

A typical Zuko and Bato conversation that causes three days of fighting can go like this…

***

“Ugh,” Sokka says a few weeks later, doing his best to pack the fire-root into the shipping barrel on top of the sunflower seeds. “This shit stinks like a whore in the middle of winter.” 

“The Southern Water Tribe has whores now?” Zuko asks. He’s hanging halfway off of the mast to turn his head towards Sokka. “Also, you need to pack those separately.” 

“I don’t need to pack them separately,” Sokka grumbles, putting more weight into smushing the packages. “I can fit them both in one. It’s just a saying.” 

“No, you can’t, and it will make the sunflower seeds smell like fire root,” Zuko says. He’s still hanging off the mast at an angle that would have Sokka’s muscles screaming in thirty seconds. “Which is a saying?”

The lid of the barrel flies off with a badly aimed shove, packets falling to the ground. One bursts, spilling carefully wound Fire-Root, and Sokka kicks the barrel. “This is why warriors don’t do girl shit!” 

Zuko drops down from the mast gracefully, crouching as he starts gathering up the spilled fire root. He’s calm, which just feels _wrong._ Zuko’s _never_ calm. 

“Because they’re… bad at it?” he asks. “Why would being a warrior make you bad at doing— what are _girl_ things? Don’t you have girl warriors?”

Sokka wrinkles his nose and doesn’t tell him about Katara. She’s an anomaly anyways. “No, weirdo. Girls are good at like, cooking and sewing and delicate kinda tasks, and warriors are good at hunting, and fishing and fighting. I’m not _meant_ for this,” and he kicks the barrel again. 

“Hm,” Zuko says, frowning as he picks things up. He seems to be thinking very hard about what Sokka just said. “Have you ever trained in this? I mean, I’d assumed,” and he waves his hand at the destruction. “That you were new to it. And that’s why you’re so bad at it.”

Zuko’s talking gibberish now. “What?” Sokka asks, picking up the fallen packets. “I was trained in lots of stuff, I just told you.” 

“Did anyone ever teach you to cook, or sew, or do delicate tasks?” Zuko asks.

“No! I’m a warrior!” 

Zuko makes a kind of _aha!_ noise. “Then you don’t have to worry about being bad at this forever! I’ll teach you how to do—” he snorts. “‘Girl’ stuff.”

Sokka drops the medicine in the empty barrel and makes a face at Zuko. “I’m not worried about being bad at it! I’m not _supposed_ to be good at it, that’s the _point._ ”

“It’s a dumb point,” Zuko says bluntly. He’s got most of the fire root back in the package now, and is retying it, hands nimble. “What if something happened to all the warriors? Or to all the women? You’d be left defenseless or unable to feed and clothe yourselves.”

That strikes dangerously close to a truth Sokka doesn’t think about and can’t let Zuko near, panic spiking. “Fucking drop it,” Sokka snaps. “Just cause you’re ok bein’ a snowflake of a man doesn’t mean that I am.” 

“ _Sokka,_ ” Zuko says, firmness in his tone. Immediately Sokka knows that he’s fucked this up, turned it into a real situation rather than a simple rant born of frustration. “What is your problem with gender? I don’t understand why it upsets you, but you’re always insulting people over it. And now it’s interfering with our work. We need to talk about this.”

Sokka can’t help but feel defensive, arms crossing as he glares at Zuko. “I don’t have a problem! There’s the way the world has worked my whole life, and you don’t follow those rules here.” To be fair, it’s not like they _can_ , or that it’s particularly difficult not to. He’s just _frustrated_.

“So you don’t have a problem, but everything about me is your problem,” Zuko says. He pulls the last knot taut, stands and puts the lid on the sunflower seeds.

“I never said that,” Sokka argues, suddenly furious. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“It’s really confusing when you call me cute and soft in the middle of an argument. Like with the snowflake thing.” Zuko picks up the fire-root bundle, walks to the crate filled with glasses of cow-moose milk. “I can’t put words in your mouth, I can’t ask you to explain your words. I know you meant to insult me, but I don’t understand how.” 

The rage and indignation mixes with regret, and Sokka remembers that stupid passage in the Bato Book. “You’re not supposed to listen to those words,” Sokka mutters, feeling more cowed the longer he examines the things he’s been saying. “They mean nothing.” 

“Would you like me to just stand here silently while you yell at me?” Zuko asks. He looks sincere. “Because if that means we get the shipment out on time—” 

“Gods!” Sokka yells, throwing his hands up, “Stop that! Stop being so-- understanding! I’m being a dick, stop just, _letting_ me be a dick.” This isn’t where he thought this conversation was going to go. “Snowflake is like-- it melts immediately, isn’t strong enough to persist like ice or rock, but it’s pretty and mostly just a pain. It’s slang for a warrior who’s more worried about girly stuff than fighting. And _obviously_ I didn’t mean you when I said it, because aside from pretty you’re none of those things. Stop making me think about things!” 

Zuko rubs at his temples. “I. So you actually _did_ call me pretty in the middle of an argument? Wait— sorry, not making you think about things. Uh.”

Leave it to Zuko to nail down the most important and also most humiliating thing that Sokka said. Fuck, how did Bato say to combat it? Is Zuko ‘deflecting’? 

“Shipment’s packed,” Zuko says, and nudges the crate near him with a foot.

“Ha! You’re deflecting!” Sokka says, pointing his finger at him. “You don’t wanna talk about something!” 

“But you don’t want to talk about things with me,” Zuko says. “You’re very clear on that.”

Sokka thinks back to their argument, trying to follow Zuko’s logic.

Nope. He doesn’t see it. “What? I’m literally talking to you _right now._ You _made_ me talk to you.” 

“And you’re obviously _enjoying it,”_ Zuko says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look, just. I get it. You hate girls, you hate things that remind you of girls, you have some kind of complex around it because of the cultural expectations—”

“What? I don’t--”

“And I remind you of a girl, so you hate me. But the shipment still needs to go out.”

“Wait,” Sokka says, the wind taken from his sails. He reaches for Zuko’s shoulder and turns him around to make him look.

“We can’t wait any longer, we’re off schedule,” Zuko says, shrugging him off. 

“Forget about your gods-damned schedule and _wait_ ,” Sokka snaps, grabbing him again. Zuko stills underneath his hand, practically vibrating with the desire to move. “I don’t _hate girls. Or_ you.” 

“Riiight,” Zuko says slowly. “Right. You _don’t_ hate women. They’re just different from you, and you don’t have anything in common with them, so you prefer to be around manly men. Right. No hatred at all.”

“Uh,” Sokka says, brows drawn. That does sound like him, like the things he says and the way he acts. But he doesn’t hate girls. He doesn’t _think_ he does. He loves Katara, and the women of his tribe. He _worships_ Yue. His mom was the coolest person he _knew._

__

__

__“I.. need to think,” Sokka mutters.

“Can you think while packing food for the voyage,” Zuko says.

Sokka sees where Zuko’s left him open for a _girls do the cooking_ jab, but he’s not going to take it. Except that Zuko’s not even looking at him, just double-checking the rope binding the barrels closed, so maybe Sokka’s reading into things now. 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, hopping down the ladder and onto the shore. 

***

After a shipping trip, Zuko will be ten times as wound up as normal. I have my usual methods for dealing with this—tripwires usually make him angry enough that he explodes for a while and then is calm afterwards—but the really important thing to remember is that Zuko. Hates. Relaxing.

He will do anything to avoid it. By this time, you’ve been introduced to his chore wheels. Do not prank the chore wheels. It sounds like such a good idea in the moment. IT IS NEVER A GOOD IDEA. The chore wheels are Zuko’s heart and soul. The chore wheels were first carved by him and Hekka. _Do not prank the chore wheels._

Here’s a series of pranks that I’ve found are fairly safe for getting the big guy to blow off some steam...

***

Zuko’s keyed the fuck up. He’s pacing, and muttering, and frantically running between the hen-cat pen and the cow-moose dairy and the far shore where Sokka’s trying to catch deepwater fish instead of the shallow ones.

“Zuko, you’re scaring the fish away,” Sokka complains, spearing one. “Fish can sense stress, Zuko!”

Zuko doesn’t reply. He’s been frankly intolerable since the shipping trip. Sokka would have figured that he’d take advantage of the alone time hiding under the deck to let some of that steam off. That’s what Sokka would have done. 

But he’s pretty sure that Zuko just spent the whole time hyperventilating about his inability to possess Sokka and haggle about the sunflower seeds himself.

In fact, Sokka can’t think of Zuko taking _any_ alone time since he got here. When Sokka leaves for his alone time, Zuko’s working. When he comes back, Zuko is _still_ working, but not in a ‘just got back to it’ way. More in a… ‘never stopped’ way.

“Yo,” Sokka calls. Zuko stops where he’s standing, a hen-cat hanging from his arm where it's embedded its beak in his skin, and looks over. “When do you wank?”

“What?” Zuko calls back. 

Sokka demonstrates with a fist near his crotch. He moves it up and down and then shrugs. 

Zuko’s eyes widen, and he flails around a bit, smoking and yelling half formed words. The hen-cat follows his arm, body flying through the air like a boneless sack.

“WHAT?” Sokka calls, laughing, “I can’t hear you! When do you _wank_ , Zuko!” 

“THAT,” Zuko yells, and flails so badly that the hen-cat flies off his arm. Sokka watches it land in the pen, right on top of another one. “IS NOT RELEVANT.”

Sokka spears another fish, grinning. “I really, really think it is.” 

“This discussion is _over,_ ” Zuko snaps, and heads towards the cottage. “Dinner in an hour!”

Sokka doesn’t see him for dinner. His plate is left out for him on the table, and he feels guilty for a moment before he remembers that they take turns now, to make it fair. It’s on the chore wheel and everything; Sokka had insisted. 

So Sokka eats his dinner, plays fetch with a cougar-elk, runs away from a cougar-elk’s mom, takes a bath in the river, prays to Yue to catch her up on things, and Zuko. Is still not back at the cottage.

“I’m going to bed!” Sokka calls out the door. “I’m saying this so that all of you cougar-elk know to come and eat me!” 

None appear, and neither does a dragon.

Sokka goes to bed. 

He doesn’t even have time to drift off before Zuko sneaks in through the front door and slithers in next to him, laying across his back and tucking his face against the curve on the back of Sokka’s neck and shoulder. His skin is too hot, the way it gets when he’s gone too long without touch and is risking a shift. 

“Is it relevant yet,” Sokka says dryly.

“Shut up,” Zuko mutters against Sokka’s neck. 

“So you got a good wank in?” 

There’s silence, and Zuko heats up even more. His mouth is making that weird teakettle sound that it does when he’s really embarrassed. 

“...I can’t. Lately,” he admits. Sokka frowns and turns around, Zuko shifting with him to lay chest to chest, his face still hidden. 

“Can’t?” Sokka asks. 

“It’s…” Zuko sighs. “It’s hard to focus. After losing someone. It’ll pass.”

Ouch. Sokka wonders if they should talk about that. But that means he’ll have to talk about it _too,_ and he shudders and says instead, “d’ya need a hand?” 

“I _have_ hands,” Zuko says. The teakettle noise is getting so loud it’s kind of hurting Sokka’s ears. 

“I have better ones,” his mouth says. An image flashes before his eyes where he and Zuko have their hands on each others’ dicks, panting and moaning. He wants to swallow the words back down his throat. 

He swallows dryly. 

There’s a long silence.

“You don’t mean that?” Zuko says. It comes out like a question, and he repeats himself. “You don’t mean that.”

“I wouldn’t offer,” Sokka says deliberately, “if I didn’t mean it. C’mon, friends help each other out all the time.” Very, very carefully Sokka slides his hand from the chaste space between Zuko’s shoulder blades to the curve of one of his hips. 

Zuko sighs, deeply, and melts into Sokka’s chest. Sokka hadn’t even realized how tense he was, how he was holding his weight off of him while pressing every inch of them he could together. 

“Okay,” he says in a small voice. “Friends.”

Sokka sits up awkwardly, depositing Zuko on his back so that he can lean over him. It’ll be easier this way, give him a better angle. 

Spirits, he’s thinking of the best way to _jack Zuko off._ Zuko blinks up at him nervously, skin pinked and smoke wisping from between his lips. 

“I had better,” he says, and then moves his hands up above his head so that they’re clasped together. He plants his feet firmly in the mattress, tilts his neck back so that his mouth is facing the ceiling. “Fire safety.” 

“Good idea,” Sokka rasps, and looks around for something he can--

“You kicked your pack under the bed yesterday,” Zuko whispers, eyes wide. He’s taking these shallow, fast breaths. “If that’s what you’re looking for.” This implies that Zuko knows what’s _in it_ , and despite the fact that they’re about to witness Sokka’s maturbation methods first hand (ha!), he can’t help but to feel mortified. 

“Yeah,” Sokka answers, also a whisper. He bends back to dig around, fingers catching the tie and hauling it up onto the bed. He finds the slick tin where it’s hidden in the front pocket; he’d bought it at the trading docks, desperate and dick rawed from how often he’s been thinking of Zuko while taking his ‘alone time.’ 

Zuko hadn’t commented on the extra expense at the time. That should have been a clue, since he commented on literally every other one. 

Sokka can see Zuko’s erection where it’s pushing against his sleep shorts, tenting the fabric. It makes his mouth water, and he desperately wishes that he hadn’t been so specific about a helping _hand_. He wants to taste it, heavy on his tongue, hot against the back of his throat. 

“I’m--” Sokka warns, hand spread wide on the base of Zuko’s stomach. He lets his pinky finger slip under the waistband.

“--Okay,” Zuko blurts, breaths coming fast and harsh. 

He does. 

Sokka reaches inside the loosened tie of Zuko’s pants and wraps his hand around the base of Zuko’s erection. Zuko’s spine arches and he sucks in a breath so loudly it whistles. Or maybe that’s the keening, high in the back of his throat. His _toes_ are curled into the bedding, and it’s enough to light the fire in Sokka’s belly, heavy and aching.

Zuko buries his mouth in his own shoulder, biting at his lips to keep them shut. 

Sokka hasn’t even _done_ anything yet. He can feel how hard Zuko is in his hand, and his dick jerks as Sokka pulls it out of Zuko’s pants. Sokka’s dick jerks in his own pants at the sight of it, red and curved and dripping at the tip. 

“Okay?” he asks, inanely. He’s irrationally worried he’s actually killing Zuko, whose face is scrunched up like he’s about to explode. And not in the fun way. 

Zuko doesn’t answer, but he does knock Sokka’s hip with his knee. 

“Okay,” Sokka breathes, and opens the tin one-handed. He gets a decent sized amount on two fingers, thinks maddeningly of _other_ things he could be doing to Zuko with two slicked up fingers, and strokes it up the side of Zuko’s erection.

“Fuck,” Zuko says into his shoulder, muffled, and then his eyes snap open. He twists to face the ceiling. When Sokka moves his hand again, fire chases every breath.

“Holy shit,” Sokka breathes, and speeds up, twisting his wrist at the base and thumbing the head on the upstroke. It’s the way he likes it, and apparently Zuko does too, with the way his body is trembling.

He wasn’t exactly expecting this to last very long, or even _thinking_ about it lasting, but it’s going to be over soon. He slows his hand, ignoring Zuko’s insistent knee bumping. He’s making these soft little whimpering sounds in the back of his throat that are driving Sokka insane. 

He’s pretty sure if he touches himself right now he’s going to explode. 

“Hurry up so I can do you,” Zuko says, hitting him with his knee again.

“Oh gods,” Sokka replies, shuddering all over. It travels from his hand to Zuko’s cock and he whines, arching his neck. 

_“Sokka,_ ” he says. 

_Say it again,_ Sokka thinks madly. _Say it again and I’ll come in my shorts._ It should be illegal, someone saying his name like that, breathy and needy and _gone._

“Please,” Zuko chokes out. This time when his knee knocks against Sokka he doesn’t move it away again, presses it into him like he can press Sokka closer.

“Okay,” Sokka agrees, speeding up his fist, moving so rapidly that it shakes the bed. Zuko stills, shocked, then falls apart. He turns his head back into his shoulder, shouts, knees pinning Sokka in place and spine arched as his hands beat the bed where they’re clasped above his head. Sokka smells smoke, knows _something_ is on fire, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the way Zuko’s face has gone slack, neck pink and exposed. 

Zuko takes a deep breath, lets it out. He takes another one, and when Sokka’s fingers twitch he shivers. 

“Do you want—”

“Was that—” they say at the same time.

“Please,” Sokka says, and Zuko reaches for his waistband, “--Don’t. Please, don’t,” Sokka finishes, feeling wretched and hating himself. He wants to feel Zuko’s hand on him so badly it _aches._

But Sokka can’t tolerate obligation.

Zuko pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. 

“Sorry,” he says, and his hand curls into a fist. He rests it on his ribs.

“No,” Sokka shakes his head. He’s sweating. They both are. “Don’t be. You’re the one who needed this. Do you,” he starts to ask, gently moving aside some of Zuko’s hair where it’s stuck against his cheek. Zuko flinches.

“...Feel better?” Sokka finishes lamely. 

“Um,” Zuko says, and glances down to where Sokka’s still cupping his dick, mostly soft between his fingers. “...yyyyess?”

He does not sound very sure about it.

“Oh!” Sokka yelps, and pulls his hand back when he realizes he’s been fondling Zuko. “Sorry!” But now he’s got a jizz coated palm on display for both of them to face, and Sokka wants to _die._

Zuko tucks himself away swiftly. There’s something tight about his jaw that there wasn’t before the orgasm, but maybe that’s just… what he looks like? Post coitally? The tight muscle jumps, and he asks, “There’s nothing you want from me?”

Before his traitorous mouth can say anything to incriminate him Sokka leaps from the bed. “Fire!” he yells, which _was_ going to be a clever misdirection, but— “SHIT! FIRE!”

The sheets had caught by Zuko’s right foot, and while they weren’t burning quickly they were smoldering. Zuko sighs, as if _the bed_ he’s currently _in_ being on fire is just a mild inconvenience. He starts stomping on it half heartedly, not even sitting up fully. 

“I’m gonna,” Sokka squeaks, pointing at the door. His boner is pointing directly at Zuko. He knows that they both can see it. 

“You don’t have to,” Zuko says, squashing the last of the fire. He’s spread out on top of the covers like some kind of wet dream, hair loose around his shoulders and cum on his stomach. 

“Water!” Sokka gasps, and escapes out the front door. 

He’s embarrassingly quick, crouched down by the stream, hand in his shorts. Thank the spirits that the sun is just rising, Zuko’s ridiculous dragon sleep schedule protecting him from Yue’s gaze. 

When he climbs into bed, a bucket of the promised water at the foot where the ash-crusted blanket is piled, Zuko’s stolen his pillow and is clutching it to his chest. He’s buried his face in it, the same way he usually buries his face in whatever part of Sokka is nearest. 

Yeah. Just. Two guys helping each other out. Normal.

***

Your dragon needs a lot of intellectual stimulation. If he doesn’t get enough of it he begins to react poorly, often seeking physical replacement in the form of sparring. Worse still is when he invents intellectual stimulation. That’s when the arguing starts.

If your dragon seems unusually temperamental, try presenting him with a challenge. Something impossible and time consuming is best— but be careful. If there’s a way to do it, no matter _how_ unlikely and impossible, you’ll suddenly have a whole new set of problems. See the chapter on cougar-elks for further examples of this trend. 

And if nothing else works, remember that Zuko is a giant, immortal dragon-beast. He’ll be ok with a little bit of roughhousing. More than okay, if you combine it with _other_ forms of physical stimulation.

***

Fall rolls in, mild and colorful in a way that Sokka’s never seen before. He’s delighted with the way that the plants change and persist, the way the sun changes course, the way that Zuko ‘bundles up’ in a robe instead of walking around shirtless. 

Sokka splashes at him from the surf, and Zuko skips back with a shriek. His entire body puffs up like an angry hen-cat. “You’re insane!” he yells. “It’s too cold!” 

“It’s _balmy_ ,” Sokka calls back, ducking under a wave and coming up with a fish between his teeth. He’d been holding it for a while just for this trick. It thrashes against his face, a fin cutting his cheek with a sharp spine, and Sokka yelps and lets it fall back into the water. 

Zuko laughs, the way he was supposed to, right up until he sees the blood.

Then he dives into the ocean and swims to Sokka.

“Are you okay?” he asks, teeth chattering.

“Such a delicate dragon,” Sokka teases, rubbing his palms up and down Zuko’s arms. “Wouldn’t last a day in the South Pole.” 

“It almost caught your eye,” Zuko says, face drawn with the cold. “Come to shore, I need to treat it.”

Sokka shakes his head. “Nah, I’m fine. The salt will clean it out.” 

Zuko’s face gets stubborn and tight, and his hands go to rest on Sokka’s waist. “Sokka.”

“Zuko,” Sokka mimics, “I’ve had worse as a kid. Don’t fuss over me.” The surf crashes against Sokka’s back, spraying them with salt and foam and whipping Zuko’s lengthening hair around.

“So have _I,_ ” Zuko says, and his eyes narrow to slits. Not that the left one has to narrow very far. “Come to shore.”

“Why are you so stubborn about this?” Sokka laughs. There’s something in the line of Zuko’s shoulders, the way his gaze keeps tracking to the cut like he can’t look away. 

“Two eyes are just better than one,” Zuko says. 

If Sokka were smart, he’d stop there. He’d recognize that Zuko’s got a certain level of baggage in the eye department-- he hasn’t told him anything, but Soka recognizes burn scars, after the amount of Fire Navy invasions he’s lived through. The scarring around his left eye is mainly covered by thick red scales, but not all of it. Not at the edges, and not if you’re close up— which Sokka has had plenty of chances to be. 

Sokka’s not smart. He’s eternally incapable of being told what to do, even when it’s benign or well-meaning. His mouth goes before his brain, as usual, and he argues, “it’s _nothing._ So what if it _does_ get infected, ignoring that it’s a _tiny scratch?_ It’s not like I need two eyes to dig turnips.” 

“Hmm,” Zuko says thoughtfully, face contemplative. And then he pulls Sokka over his shoulder with the hands he’d had on his waist, swiftly trapping his knees and thighs so he can’t wiggle off.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Sokka shouts against Zuko’s ass. “PUT ME DOWN?!” 

“I will,” Zuko says, and starts walking towards shore. “Eventually.”

“You’re mad,” Sokka notes, clued in by the icy-calm of Zuko’s voice. 

“Piece of advice from the half blind, half deaf man to the one who _isn’t,”_ Zuko says. “You don’t want to be me.”

Sokka’s knocking against the small of Zuko’s back with every step and he can feel the blood rushing into his head. It’s massively uncomfortable, especially with the way Zuko’s hands are burning him, but he knows better than to say anything to him. 

“Worst case scenario an infection would kill you,” Zuko adds. “Can’t dig turnips when you’re dead.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Sokka tells him. 

They hit the beach. Zuko doesn’t put him down, just marches in the direction of the cottage.

“I’ve earned it. I was very calm for the past 20 years,” Zuko says, absolutely lying through his teeth if Bato’s book is anything to go by.

Sokka sighs, and grabs Zuko’s ankle. He’s only going to get one chance at this, Zuko having the strength advantage against him. So, as he grabs Zuko’s ankle and pulls inward, he bites Zuko’s ass through his soaked pants hard enough that his teeth ache. 

Zuko doesn’t drop him, or throw him, or fall. Instead, he stands perfectly still, frozen and balancing on one foot. 

Hm. Impossible task; reacting to Sokka _literally_ biting his ass. The only problem is that Sokka is still dangling uselessly over Zuko’s shoulder while he works through whatever is going on in his head. 

Zuko very slowly puts his foot down, breaking Sokka’s hold. Feeling his glutes move under his teeth is a… strange sensation. Not entirely bad.

“Nope,” Zuko says.

“Fight me fair,” Sokka says, mouth full. He lets go regretfully. 

“I’m not in a fighting mood,” Zuko says. His voice is strangled.

“That’s not what the book said,” Sokka argues. Now’s his chance. He swipes at Zuko’s ankle again, this time throwing all of his weight back to try and overbalance him. 

This time he gets the pleasure of landing face first in the dirt. When he rolls over, Zuko’s glaring at him, body still mostly tilted towards the cottage. 

“Sokka,” Zuko grates out. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Fight me!” Sokka grins, kicking out. Zuko dances backwards to avoid him, and the movement turns him more towards Sokka. Sokka, who had been rising to his feet, freezes face first with the reason why Zuko’s apparently not in a _fighting_ mood. 

“Huh,” he says, and kicks Zuko in the gut, shoving him onto his back. Zuko lands hard, dust sticking to his wet skin in patches. A few moments pass as he stares forlornly at the stars, hands and legs akimbo. 

“Fine. Die of infection,” he says. He doesn’t move to stand. 

Sokka steps towards him hesitantly, gently nudging at his side. “Zuko. C’mon, need a hand?” 

“Fuck off,” Zuko says, and rolls onto his front. “I don’t need your,” and he starts laughing. “ _Hand outs.”_

 _Yes._ Once he can get Zuko laughing, he’s usually in the clear. “But it worked so well last time,” Sokka teases, wiggling his fingers at him. 

“Sokka,” Zuko warns, voice strained. He’s flushed down to his neck, shoulders hunched up near his ear and ear-remainder as he stands. “I.” He bites his lip and takes a few steps towards him. Sokka doesn’t move away, so he takes a few more, breathing out as he presses up against his front, chest to chest. 

He’s so _warm._

“Is this okay?” Zuko asks, talking so close that Sokka can smell the woodsmoke of his breath.

“Is what okay?” Sokka asks carefully, heart hammering and fingers twitching where they settled onto Zuko’s hips of their own volition. Suddenly the teasing lilt is gone to their voices, their body language. Instead there’s wide eyes and parted lips. 

“Y’know,” Zuko says. Then he darts forward, pecks a quick kiss onto Sokka’s chin. “But. Higher. Or _lower.”_

Zuko had said that he didn’t want to fight. But he’s keyed up, and Bato had mentioned--

“I’m,” Sokka says, cutting off that train of thought. The little kiss to his chin is fucking adorable. It’s _painful_ how cute Zuko is. How attractive. But this is different than a hand job. 

“Significantly,” Zuko says, and his hand plucks at Sokka’s waistband. “Lower.”

Sokka looks to the sky, breathing deeply through his nose. “I’m fine,” he says, strangled, evidence of the contrary firmly pressed against Zuko’s hip. 

Zuko steps away. His pants look painful, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Then so am I,” he says, voice tight with annoyance. “Don’t bite me again.”

“Zuko,” Sokka tries, reaching for him. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He keeps putting that look on Zuko’s face, that pinched, pained look that speaks of something deeper. Deep wounds that Sokka makes worse. 

“I don’t need your—” Zuko looks at him, and then runs his hands through his hair, grabbing big fistfuls of it and tugging as he does. “Whatever this is! Martyrdom? Pity? So just leave it alone.” 

“I don’t understand what I’m doing,” Sokka admits, reaching for him again. “I know that you’re uncomfortable with me, with my attraction to you,” he starts, and Zuko _bites him._ “OW! HEY!” 

Zuko lets go of his shoulder. “Sorry!” he says, looking alarmed. “I— sorry? Dragon instincts. You were being dumb, and dragons—so I… bit… I’m sorry I bit you.”

“Zuko!” Sokka yells. Nothing else is immediately forthcoming, because he can see a fang peeking from beneath Zuko’s lip, and his shoulder is stinging, and he’s apparently very, very dumb. 

“I like you,” Zuko says in a rush. “I didn’t mean to— I don’t know how you think _this,”_ and he gestures at himself vaguely, “is because I’m uncomfortable with you. I’m uncomfortable with how uncomfortable _you_ are.”

“I mean!” Sokka tries, “we’re stuck with each other, and I thought you thought I was better than nothing for fifty years. You got. Really upset with me that first time we tried to have sex.” 

“Because _I’m_ the better than nothing for fifty years,” Zuko says. He looks pained, but it’s an old pain. “I’m. Almost always. The better than nothing. And you weren’t even being...coy about it.”

Sokka thinks about that. Thinks about eight other men, only one of which he knows was into men, maybe the Hekka guy too by the way Zuko talks about him. Thinks about an entire lifetime of warriors _helping each other out_ , of talking about women and telling each other to turn over and taking turns, of the quiet tallies kept.

This feeling is... big. It’s dangerous. Sokka licks his lips and steels himself, because he’s not a coward. “I don’t do obligation,” Sokka says seriously. He tucks a finger underneath Zuko’s chin, tilting it upwards. “I’m sure you’re lonely. So am I. But I don’t. Do. Obligation.” 

“It’s not like I can say I have other options,” Zuko says, rolling his eyes. He wraps his hands around Sokka’s waist, tentatively. “But default doesn’t mean bad. Or, it doesn’t have to, anyways. If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll--” Sokka scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been _in love_ with you since I saw you with legs. But I don’t want you to feel obligated just because--”

“Hm,” Zuko says, and knocks their hips together. “Sokka, may I introduce you to Obligation?” Sokka freezes. Zuko wiggles a little. 

“Obligation is the name of my—”

“Yeah! I got that!” Sokka says loudly, unable to help his grin. He wiggles his hips, biting his lips to try and keep the laughter at bay. “You haven’t met _duty_ yet, have you?” 

Zuko laughs, his face open and relieved and relaxed. He leans in, his hands more firm on Sokka’s waist now. “Hey, my friend honor’s visiting too. They’re my favorite.”

Then he kisses him.

Sokka kisses back. It’s rough. Nothing like kissing a woman, or even the couple of men he’s fooled around with. He catches a fang almost immediately, and when Zuko pulls back at the tang of blood Sokka wraps his fist in his hair and holds him in place. Zuko whimpers, claws digging into Sokka’s hips. 

Looks like he’s gonna get that fight, after all. 

***

Fall marches on, better than before. It gets colder every day, and Zuko gets shittier about leaving his pile of blankets until _Sokka’s_ the one dragging them off. But some mornings, when they wake up early enough that the hen-cats aren’t screaming their dear little heads off, they can lounge around a bit.

It’s then, with Zuko’s face buried in the hollow of Sokka’s throat, hand squirming south, that Sokka says, “You should really sell those small chore wheels.”

Zuko’s hand stills. 

He’s not much for talking when he’s not properly awake, so it takes him a while to work up the words. “You hate them that much?”

“What?” Sokka says, groggily. “You’re stupid. No, I mean you should make _new_ ones for selling.” He pulls Zuko’s face away from his neck so that he can kiss his mouth, lips red and puffy still from sleep. 

It takes a while to work the words through his brain, Sokka can practically— no wait, can literally see steam coming out of his ears as he thinks. Okay, not literally. But it could be. Someday.

“Blowjob,” Zuko finally says, and starts squirming down Sokka’s body.

“You dope,” Sokka says fondly, lying back and settling his hand in Zuko’s hair. Zuko hums happily.

If the first year is the hardest, he can’t wait to see what the rest are like. 


	4. Chapter 4

The nights are getting colder. 

Zuko still hasn’t fixed the window he threw the chore wheel through— sure, he’d taped it up with some thick brown packing paper, but that was just a temporary measure. And despite Sokka’s whining, there is actually a lot of work to be done. Which means the window kept getting ignored, the evenings comfortable enough to sleep through. 

Now, with snow on the horizon, even Zuko’s unnatural warmth isn’t enough to keep their toes from turning blue. 

“What do you know about glassblowing?” he asks Sokka. It’s probably nothing. It’s _usually_ nothing, to begin with. But he really needs it to be something, because it’s going to be unbearable to try and do this on his own. 

“Uh,” Sokka says, looking up from where he’s smashing old apples with a rock hammer. He’s got some mulch on his cheek, and Zuko wipes it off and pops his finger in his mouth. 

“How comfortable are you with shaping molten glass while I heat the sand?” Zuko asks, wiping his finger on his robe.

“UH,” Sokka says, looking panicked.

“Hm,” Zuko says. 

Sokka sits back on his heels, laying the mallet on his knees so that he can give his full attention to Zuko. A hen-cat tottles up to the applesauce-in-progress, and Sokka bats it away.

“This is something dangerous?” Sokka questions. 

“Not for me,” Zuko says. He stretches, already thinking through how he’s going to make this work. “But for you, very much so.”

Sokka tilts his head to the side, gaze sharp. “Then why ask me? Unless something about it is dangerous for _you_?” 

“It’s time consuming,” Zuko says, and makes a disgusted face. “And the Water Tribe used to have glass smiths. So I like to ask. Hekka trained me on how to train others, and it’s a part of your heritage. It’s just...difficult to be the flame _and_ the smith.”

“So you know the Tribes way of doing it,” Sokka says, impressed. “Will you teach me? Our last blower passed away without taking an apprentice. Her sons are both with my Dad, so if --when, so _when_ they come back it’ll be fine, but it would be nice to send instructions back to Katara.” 

“Your dad?” Zuko asks. He’d assumed that Hakoda had died, since he wasn’t there to greet Bato. But maybe it had just been the years, the distance, that meant he wasn’t there to greet him. Or maybe he was waiting in a tent with Kya to rip Bato’s clothes off. “Uh— yeah, of course. We can send a copy of the treaty, too. Since yours got destroyed.”

Sokka seems pleased by that, relaxing back and crossing his legs in a manner that shows he’s planning to chat with Zuko for a while rather than immediately go back to what he was doing. It’s nice, how Sokka does that-- focuses on Zuko completely, full attention. Like he cares about what Zuko’s saying. Like he _enjoys_ it. 

It’s also nerve wracking.

“Yeah, my Dad left with the first wave of warriors to--” Sokka stumbles, face paling. 

“Left _where,_ ” Zuko asks, frowning. 

“Oh! Uhh,” he scratches the back of his head nervously. “They left to help the Earth Kingdom with a navy treaty. They used to send letters to us but we stopped hearing from them a few years ago.” 

Sokka is lying, about something. Zuko thinks back to that message Bato had received almost thirty years ago— the one that he wouldn’t let Zuko read, that he _ate_ after reading. The one that meant they stopped sending shipments directly to the Southern Water Tribe.

“Do you…” Zuko says awkwardly. “Would you want help sending someone to check on them? If their letters aren’t getting through—” 

“--NO!” Sokka says, too loudly. He cringes. 

Yeah.

He’s lying.

“Right,” Zuko says, and tries to keep the hurt off of his face. 

“No,” Sokka says again, in a completely different tone. He clenches a fist on his knee and looks away. 

“I— Sokka,” Zuko says. He doesn’t really know how to phrase this. It’s not okay that Sokka and Bato lie to him. But it has to be. “I… understand that our allyship is… tenuous, at times. And that I’m more of a liability than—” 

“Our what-now?” Sokka asks, wrinkling his nose at him. 

“Between me and the Southern Water tribe,” Zuko says, waving a hand. 

“Oh, good,” Sokka says, relieved. “I thought you were talking about you and me again.” 

“It’s okay if you have to keep secrets,” Zuko says. “I understand following your Chief.”

Sokka starts to laugh. It starts as an incredulous giggle, and then he’s honking loudly, holding his sides, mallet dropped to the dirt to gather ants. 

“Uh, your mom?” Zuko tries. “Sorry, was that weird, the formality—” 

“My _mom,_ ” Sokka wheezes. “My _mom is dead._ ” He’s still laughing, and it’s really not something that Zuko thinks warrants laughter. 

Zuko thinks about how Sokka had introduced himself: Sokka, son of Hakoda and Kya Chief of the Southern Water Tribe.

He adds in a comma, and blanches.

“ _You’re the Chief?”_

“ _I’m the Chief,”_ Sokka hoots, slapping his leg. 

“Why are you here!” 

Silence. 

Zuko takes a deep breath, releases it. Rethinks a thousand hints. A thousand _there’s no one else,_ and _the warriors_ , and _the first wave._

“I’ll just… go… make a window,” he offers, feeling intrusive for figuring something out, and oddly betrayed because he doesn’t know what it is. Because the tribe doesn’t trust him. Because _Sokka,_ the _Chief_ of the tribe, doesn’t trust him.

Sokka’s not looking at him, meticulously picking ants off of the mallet, his back stiff. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says lightly. 

“Couldn’t if I try,” Zuko says dryly, and heads for the cave with the yearly calendar and the smithery.

***

It’s so easy to talk to Zuko that Sokka completely forgets that he has to lie to him for the next 50 years.

Fuck. 

Zuko’s face had told him everything he needed to know, which is that _Zuko_ knows something, which means that all of his careful misdirection is about to be undone. Unless Zuko has magically developed the ability to _let things be._

And maybe Sokka’s a waterbender, if he’s going to start wishing for impossibilities. Bato had written _give him an impossible problem_ and that he _needs to be intellectually stimulated._

It doesn’t take a genius to put together all of the little things that Sokka has let slip over the last few months. 

_I’m so fucked_. 

***

Zuko sits in the cave with the yearly calendar carved into the stone of the wall, with the glass smithing tools, in the steel and glass chair he and Hekka had made over 400 years ago.

“I can let this go,” he says. His voice echoes, and he has to hear the lie in it reflected back from the stone. “I can. I _will._ I can do this.”

His own voice distorts, mocking him, _can, will, do this._

He drops his face into his hands. 

“I’m so fucked,” he whispers.

And then he throws himself into making the _perfect_ window.

***

It’s like living with a ghost. There’s dinner, and there’s the warm press of him against Sokka’s back at night, and there’s his half of the daily chores all done, but Zuko is just— _gone._

He’s not even updating the chore wheel. He _always_ updates the chore wheel.

Sokka waits up for him, sitting on the bed with the bedside candle lit. The candle burns, fat melting until the wick sputters out in the hot liquid. 

Zuko doesn’t show, and Sokka sits stubbornly in the early dawn light as it fades to early afternoon. He tries to think, fiddle with his hands, anything to stay awake. Zuko can’t outlast him. Zuko will literally turn into a _dragon_ if he avoids him too long, and Zuko _hates_ being a dragon. He can’t do any of his chores when he’s a dragon. 

But eventually Sokka nods off, too tired to even speak when he feels warm arms wrap around him. 

The next time he tries to wait up, he’s laying in bed, breathing slow and pretending to sleep. It works, if only because Zuko must also be exhausted, the way his scaled feet drag across the wood mats is any sign. 

He slides along Sokka’s back again, pressing his nose between Sokka’s shoulderblades and breathing deeply. Sokka shifts, ignoring the way that Zuko tenses, and turns in his arms so that they’re facing.

He traces a finger over the arch of Zuko’s nose and smiles. “Hey.” 

“The window isn’t done yet,” Zuko whispers. He looks viscerally ashamed, like Sokka gives a fuck about the _window._

“We’ll survive,” Sokka hums, shifting closer. “I’m sure you can help me keep warm.” 

Zuko twitches, like he wants to jump out of the bed and right back to window making. But he can’t, because he’s an idiot who waited until he was about to go all big and winged and scaly. His lips are pressed shut so tightly that they’re white.

“I’m tired,” Zuko says weakly. That hurts, because rejection always does. Sokka pushes past it, still stroking Zuko’s cheek with a knuckle. 

“Sure,” Sokka agrees. “I get that. You’ve been working hard. I can rub your shoulders instead.” 

Zuko chokes out a laugh, turns to bury his face in the pillows, and then turns again so that he’s flat on his front. He turns his face to the side. “So we’re not going to talk about it?”

Sokka leans up, palm big and warm against the back of Zuko’s neck. He squeezes gently before sliding it down his spine in a firm line. Zuko’s so tense he wonders if he can push hard enough to snap a vertebrae. 

“Talk about what?” Sokka asks breezily. 

Absurdly, that relaxes Zuko. His muscles are still in knots, but he stops holding himself in a sort of permanent flinch. 

“...’m not _that_ tired,” he mutters. 

Oh thank the _spirits._ Sokka laughs, relieved, and leans down to press a kiss between Zuko’s shoulder blades. “Oh? I wouldn’t want to _strain_ you,” he says, kneeing Zuko’s thighs apart. Zuko props himself up on his elbows, head hanging forward so that his hair hides his entire face even if the angle didn’t. 

“I dunno, sounds kinda nice,” Zuko says.

That pulls a grin from Sokka, face pressed against Zuko’s skin where he can feel it. “Does it? I can wear you out, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“The only strain you’re giving me is a strain on my _patience,_ ” Zuko says, and tilts his hips upwards. Sokka covers his mouth with a palm, a silent _shut up_ that Zuko immediately obeys. 

He can feel Zuko’s lips pressed shut tightly, see the glow peeking out through his hair. At first, Sokka had been so nervous around him. The constant smoking didn’t really help. But Zuko knows his limits, he’s strong enough to throw Sokka off of him in a heartbeat, and he _never_ risks Sokka’s safety.

He just really, _really_ likes it when they pretend to risk _his._

“That’s better,” Sokka murmurs against Zuko’s good ear. He reaches between them and prods lightly at Zuko’s hole with a finger, ignoring the way that he whimpers and jerks his hips, trying to catch Sokka’s hand with his erection.

This is good. They don’t have to talk, or argue, or hurt each other. They can fuck instead, good and dirty, and they’ll cuddle together afterwards and nothing will have been said and nothing will _need_ to be said. It’ll be just fine. It’ll be good, a familiar intimacy that they’ll both seek comfort in. 

Zuko’s feet talons rip the blankets, and Sokka decides he should stop overthinking this. Kind of ruins the point of it if he _overthinks it._

“Stay,” he says, pulling away to reach for the tin of slick on the nightstand. Zuko stays still, obviously working at it, not even letting his mouth open. The glow from underneath his hair is brightening so much that it’s almost hard to look directly at him. 

“Breathe,” Sokka orders in the exact same tone of voice. 

Zuko shifts to one elbow, catching his hair up and away from his face with one hand before he allows himself to. The golden fire chases at the headboard, but doesn’t catch— just a quick searing of the wood, a scent of smoke. He’s panting, open mouthed, but the flame is smaller now. 

Sokka used to hate the smell of smoke. It would remind him of raids, and the day they lost his mom. He never expected that to change. Never really wanted it to, even when it would have made campfires and celebrations and spiritual incense more tolerable. 

But Zuko smells like woodsmoke, and Zuko _touches his dick._

“Now?” Zuko asks. He shoots an impatient look at Sokka, clipped tone from trying to talk around the fire.

Sokka climbs up behind him, tin in hand, and smiles. “Now? Hold still.”

Then he puts his mouth on Zuko’s ass. 

Zuko _does not_ hold still, but it’s also not a conscious kind of movement. It’s a shudder down his spine, and his knees wobble. It takes Sokka a long second to realize that he’s also stopped breathing again.

He pulls his tongue out to mutter, “Breathe. The more I have to reminder you, the less I get to --”

“Not safe,” Zuko snaps, twisting so that he's facing away from anything flammable. It’s a good choice, because that’s a _lot_ of fire, holy _spirits._

“We can stop,” Sokka says. It’s not sexy; he genuinely means to, pulling away and wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “We can do something else if you can’t handle this.” 

Zuko snarls, which is not really an answer but kind of is. Sokka starts to pull away, but Zuko catches him between his shins as he tries to put a sentence together. 

“No,” he finally manages. He takes a deep breath. “I will. Fine. Breathing. See?”

He blows the air out. It’s mostly smoke, but it’s not fire. Then he sucks in another exaggerated breath, repeats. 

Sokka actually watches him, despite the sass. He’s filing his lungs completely, the glow still emanating from his skin but no longer igniting on the exhale. He can work with that.

Sokka deliberately pushes Zuko’s shins away so that he can move back to where he was. 

“Don’t even need to breathe,” Zuko complains, letting his head drop between his elbows again. His shoulders have tensed right back up.

Sokka stills, lips already pressed against soft skin. “What?” he asks, directly into Zuko’s asshole. 

Zuko shakes a little, but true to his word doesn’t start spouting fire. “I don’t need to breathe?” he says, voice high.

Sokka’s mouth is too busy to respond to that, tongue pointed as he thrusts it, thumbs holding Zuko open. He’s obscenely hot on his mouth, but Sokka’s more than a little accustomed to it. 

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” Zuko says, and there’s a noise like something hitting the headboard. 

“Thass useful,” Sokka slurs, pulling away, tongue numb. He replaces his tongue with two fingers, chewing on his own lips to get some feeling back into them. Can Zuko produce some sort of sex venom? Or does he need to like, work out his lips more? What’s a work out routine for lips? He glances up at Zuko, just checking in, and— 

The thing hitting the headboard is Zuko’s head.

“I said hold still,” Sokka says, pinching Zuko’s ass with his unoccupied hand. He does it three more times when Zuko stops, but does so with a downright terrible attitude. 

“Breathe, hold still, don’t set me on fire,” Zuko says mockingly. He chews on the corner of one lip until it beads up with blood.

Sokka leans forward and shoves two fingers between Zuko’s lips. He’s not going to be able to hold this position long, but the satisfaction in the way that Zuko’s jaw slackens and his eyes go misty is absolutely worth it. 

“If you have energy to bitch, you have energy to suck,” Sokka says cheerfully, pressing down against the velvet slickness of Zuko’s tongue. He can feel the heat where it’s focused in the back of his throat, burning his fingertips. He _should_ be worried, literally playing with fire the way that he is. 

Zuko will shove him off if he’s in any danger. 

Zuko— and Sokka can see how careful he’s being, the tendons in his forearms standing out, the vein in his temple— swallows. Then he does it again, tongue working around Sokka’s fingertips even though he can’t close his mouth without his fangs cutting into Sokka’s skin.

That earns him a reward. Sokka twists his wrist and angles his other hand, searching out Zuko’s sweet spot. Even as he does it, some terrified voice of reason is screaming _don’t!_

But Zuko doesn’t bite down. Instead, his mouth falls open as he rocks backwards, sliding Sokka’s fingers deeper inside of him with a low, rumbling moan.

Sokka hooks his fingers on Zuko’s teeth and tugs once, playfully, before pulling them out. They sting, but the look on Zuko’s face-- slack jawed, eyelashes fluttering, focus completely obliterated-- makes it more than worth it. 

This time there’s no demands, or sass. Zuko just lets out this soft, shuddering breath, and very gently leans his forehead against the headboard. 

“There we go,” Sokka praises, rolling his shoulder as he settles behind him. He’s painfully hard and shows Zuko, rubbing along the back of his thighs in a tease. A muscle in Zuko’s thigh jumps, but he’s otherwise perfectly still, and still breathing. 

Sokka removes his other fingers and leans back on his heels. He takes his own advice, slowing his breaths, calming himself before he passes out from heat exhaustion. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it’d be the first time before they’ve even hit the _fun_ part. 

“You ready?” Sokka asks gently, both hands cupping Zuko’s ass cheeks. He squeezes encouragingly. 

Zuko’s shoulders stiffen, and Sokka can practically hear his _is this a trick question?_ as he fights with himself.

“Sokka,” is all that Zuko manages, slurred and guttural. He sucks in a deep breath, likely forgetting while faced with the complexity of Sokka’s inquiry. 

“Yes or no,” Sokka teases warmly, thumbing Zuko open. 

“ _Yes,”_ Zuko says immediately, relief evident in his voice. “Yes, yes, _yes._ ”

“Good,” Sokka replies, and fucks him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Zuko says again, louder, and Sokka has to agree. Yes, yes, this is definitely _yes._ Gods, he’s so glad that they acted like adults and didn’t talk about any of their problems. This is so much better. 

“Sokka,” Zuko chokes out again, arms shaking as he shoves back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, encouraging Sokka to go harder. 

“You’re so bad at taking direction,” Sokka says happily from where he’s holding onto Zuko’s hips. When Zuko stops moving, he pulls at them. “No, no, c’mon, you’re _the best_ at being bad.”

There are the flames again, aimed at the far wall, barely even darkening it. Zuko sobs, falling onto his forearms, spine arched beautifully. He buries his face in the blankets and wails when Sokka reaches around to palm his neglected erection. 

“Sure, that’s permission,” Sokka teases breathlessly. Zuko shudders visibly and shakes his head against the bedding. “No? No what?” 

Zuko just shakes his head again, shoves his hips backwards. 

“No, you’re not a bad listener?” Sokka asks, shoving forward, using his body weight to try and press Zuko the rest of the way into the mattress. “No, I’m not giving you permission?” 

“No,” Zuko says, which clears up nothing, and then, “I’m sorry,” completely nonsensically.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Sokka moans, heel of his hand slipping in the sweat beading on the small of Zuko’s back and sliding down his spine. He settles his weight between Zuko’s shoulder blades, pinning him as he pistons his hips erratically. “You’re _perfect._ Don’t apol-- _ah-_ -apol-- say _sorry.”_

“Sorry,” Zuko says again, and then tenses up in frustration at himself. He groans. “Don’t— just shut _up._ ” 

“ _No,_ ” Sokka says breathlessly, “I won’t. You’re fucking--gorgeous, Zuko, and I won’t _shut up_ ,” he starts, really revving up for a good, long rant, meant to embarrass and tease Zuko until he’s a stammering mess. 

“I’m not fucking _gorgeous,”_ Zuko spits, and even twisting to face him with the scarred side of his face he’s still wrong. “You’re just fucking me.”

“I am fucking you,” Sokka grins, “I’m fucking _gorgeous_ you,” he adds, stroking his hand along Zuko’s erection. It twitches, leaking, and Sokka can tell that he’s close, even with his attitude. 

Zuko rolls his eyes, says dryly, “Right,” and turns to press his face against the headboard again. 

“Zuko,” Sokka says, “Zuuuuko. Why’re you being such a brat? Don’t you wanna come?”

“Sure,” Zuko says, like he’s not particularly worried. The tendon that starts jumping in his neck looks worried. “I’m gorgeous, you’re right, sex now.”

“Mm. You asked me to wear you out, yet here you are not worn out.” The sexy talk is getting harder to come by, and Sokka slows down, pulls them back from the edge. He leans some of his weight off of Zuko in the process and Zuko hisses like a hen-cat, claws at the headboard.

“What is _wrong with you?”_ he asks, trying to move. He can’t get the right leverage to fuck himself, can’t push back with any force or he’ll just throw Sokka off of him. 

It’s moments like these where Sokka’s astutely aware of just how much he _doesn’t_ know Zuko. He can’t tell with any real certainty if Zuko wants him to bully him, to smack him around a little to bring him back to that liquid, soft place. 

Or maybe he needs to stop, to check in and see if he’s upset Zuko somehow, if they need to calm down before continuing. 

“Why are you _stopping?!_ ” 

“Well,” Sokka says carefully, toeing the line between both options, “you don’t seem to be that into it anymore.” He leaves just enough airiness to his tone that Zuko can choose to take it as a tease, if that’s what he’s angling for. 

“Do you need a notarized letter of consent?” Zuko says. He’s still wriggling underneath Sokka, trying to get friction.

“What would that even say?” Sokka asks, delighted. He gives Zuko some of what he wants in the form of friction. 

“It would say,” and Zuko’s voice breaks, “Fuck me, you giant _dick.”_

“Fuck you with my giant dick? Okay,” Sokka agrees, and does, both hands planted on the bedding and hips rocking hard enough to shove the bed against the floor. 

“No, _you’re—_ fuck!” Zuko says. “Oh Gods. You’re, fuck, fuck, _dick,_ you’re a _dick,_ and I can’t— shit, I can’t _stand you—_ ”

“Sounds fake for someone coming on my dick,” Sokka says, and comes with a moan, forehead pressed against Zuko’s back. He keeps working Zuko through his, even as rush after rush of pleasure racks through him, pushing soft shouts from between his lips. 

“That’s because you’re a bad listener,” Zuko laughs, breathlessly, hand working himself as he grinds backwards into Sokka. Sokka whimpers into his shoulder, _sensitive sensitive sensitive._ And then Zuko comes, and Sokka pulls out with a frantic half-shriek as Zuko clenches around him.

“Sorry!” Zuko yells, alarmed, still shaking through it. 

“Hot!” Sokka says, reaching for the washcloth floating in the washbasin they use to clean their feet before climbing into bed. He lays it over his half-hard dick with a hiss. 

“B-bad hot?” Zuko asks. He’s shivering, twitching like he’s trying to roll over on his back but can’t quite get there.

Sokka helps him with a hand on his hip, flipping him like a stranded turtle-duck, and grimaces. “Only at the very end,” he admits. 

“Should have held my breath,” Zuko says guiltily.

Sokka lays over him, pressing the wet cloth between their hips. He kisses Zuko’s mouth for the first time that night. Zuko’s a little slow to respond, and Sokka pulls back and smiles at him. 

“Nah. I like to hear you,” he admits. 

“Bad listener,” Zuko says, again. He flops an arm over Sokka.

“Yep. You are,” Sokka agrees, folding his arm under his head. 

“Giant dick,” Zuko mutters, eyes half closed and slipping further. 

“Thanks,” Sokka says, “I get a lot of good feedback on it.” He kisses Zuko’s sleepy mouth again. 

Zuko clearly tries to say something else, probably something hurtful, but it sounds like he’s talking through a mouthful of applesauce. Which Sokka had tried to do the other day, and sounded _identical_. 

“What a zinger,” Sokka says, and lays against Zuko’s chest. He pulls the covers over them both, settling in. 

Yeah. Way better than talking.


	5. Chapter 5

Sokka wakes up to the world ending.

Or at least that’s what it feels like— Zuko is standing in a corner of the cottage, ripping things out of containers and putting them in different ones, swearing steadily. And loudly. 

“Hnngg?” Sokka asks intelligently, wiping drool off of his beard. 

“It’s Sunday,” Zuko says, like that means anything. 

“Uh-huh?”

“It was supposed to be _Thursday,”_ Zuko says, like an insane person. He shoves his hand in his pocket, then throws a chore wheel at the foot of the bed.

“Hm,” Sokka agrees again, eyelids drooping. 

“The shipment is _tomorrow!”_ Zuko bellows.

Sokka blinks blearily at him. They’d been up _way_ too late the night before. Zuko may be an immortal dragon who can survive without basic needs being met, like _oxygen,_ but Sokka’s too old to work on only a few hours of sleep. Especially after the workout he’d given Zuko that night. 

“Why’s it Sunday?” he tries. His eyes have slipped shut again. 

“Because I’m a fucking _idiot,_ ” Zuko snarls. 

“That doesn’t sound right,” Sokka hums, lowering his head onto his pillow. “I think you’re having a nightmare.” 

“Can you get up now or do you need an hour?” Zuko asks. Sokka was wrong. This is _his_ nightmare.

“I hate when you do that,” he moans into the pillow. “You ask all _nice_ , when I really know I don’t have a choice, but if I sleep in _I’m_ the asshole.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Zuko says in a measured voice. “I really can handle the next hour on my own, if you need the sle—”

Sokka rolls off of the bed and directly onto the floor. “There. M’up. What d’you need me for.” 

“I’ll see you in an hour,” Zuko says decisively. 

***

“Cold,” Sokka moans an hour later, Zuko’s clawed finger poking him in the cheek. “Where’s the blankets.” 

“Good, you’re awake,” Zuko says. 

“You’re a blessing,” Sokka moans when Zuko hands him a cup of hot tea. “My own personal blessing.” Unfortunately this means that he has to sit up, and do so without Zuko’s assistance, because he’s gone back to whatever racket had woken Sokka up originally. 

“Hm,” Zuko says skeptically. “Sokka, I fucked up. I wasn’t checking the chore wheels enough, and the shipment is tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think you needed them, honestly,” Sokka admits, sipping his tea and gratefully accepting some bread and honey from Zuko. 

“Why would I make so many if I didn’t _need them?”_ Zuko asks. He sounds flabbergasted by this strange world where he could have a hobby.

“Well, it’s all originally in your head. I just assumed it stayed there.” Sokka doesn’t mention that he _also_ wasn’t checking them, because he doesn’t care. That’s not something productive to say. Katara would be so _proud_ of his self control. 

“The only thing that stays in my head are insults,” Zuko says, and starts eating his own bread and honey. 

“Your head must be empty, living with such a perfect guy as me,” Sokka says. 

“I’m a regular snowflake of joy.” Zuko says blandly, then continues, “I’ve written out a list for you. I didn’t have time to update the chore charts, which means we’ll almost certainly miss something. I’ve done my best to make sure it’s not anything important, but tell me if you remember it.” 

“Yippee, reading,” Sokka says, taking the paper with sticky fingers. He reads the list: _Apples, applesauce, cow-moose cheese/butter/curds, hen-cat mayonnaise, hen-cat feathers, 26 packages of fire root, turnips, 50 fishbone needles--_

“Why is this so long?” Sokka asks, squinting at it. “Didn’t you say you needed it by tomorrow?”

“I gave you the short list,” Zuko says grimly.

“I think I can do everything except the needles,” Sokka admits, thinking about it. “They take a long time to hollow out and you need a lot of them.” 

“Oh, no, I remembered that you hate delicate tasks,” Zuko says reassuringly. “I just need you to package them. I’m too stressed, I’ll snap them if I have to handle them.”

Sokka opens his mouth, prepared to take the bait and start a playful fight, but catches sight of Zuko’s face where it’s drawn from stress. He closes his mouth and sets his food aside, reaching for Zuko. 

“No,” Zuko says, shoving at his hands, “Did we not just go over how I’m too busy—” 

“Shut up and come here,” Sokka argues, grabbing his wrist and pulling him into his lap. 

Zuko breaks his hold effortlessly, stumbling to his feet. He’s glowing. “Ssssokka. I’m too ssssstresssssed.”

“That’s what I’m trying to help with,” Sokka says, exasperated, and wraps his hands around the back of his knees. He tugs, looking up at Zuko pleadingly when he doesn’t budge. 

Zuko glares at the chore list meaningfully, and then stomps out the door. Sokka lets go before he can drag him across the room. Before he can drag him very far across the room, anyways.

“Yue,” Sokka curses, “this is gonna suck.” 

Sokka cleans up their mess in the form of shoving the rest of the bread into his mouth, grabs the list and heads out after Zuko, chewing the whole way. 

It’s not like they waited until the last day to do all of it. Most of the stuff is at least mostly done; the only thing left without any completion are picking the apples, because the longer they’re picked and not sold the faster they bruise and spoil. Sokka is 99% sure that this freak out is _mostly_ about the chore wheels. Usually freaking out about the chore wheel is an excuse not to freak out about something else, which makes this a truly refreshing change of pace.

Zuko appears out of _nowhere_ , right in Sokka’s face, and says, “Give me your list, I remembered some of the things I forgot.”

...yep.

A truly refreshing change of pace.

***

“I think we got all of it,” Sokka says, flopping next to Zuko on the bed. He’s sore all over, and got stung by a wasp while picking apples. It should be too _cold_ for wasps. 

“Thinking is for idiots,” Zuko says. He’s staring at the ceiling, fingers twisting anxiously in the blankets. His claws keep getting caught, and he has to rip them out. “I need to _know._ ”

Yue, it seems like he’s going to have to actually talk to Zuko about all of his… this. “Why?” he asks, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. He hasn’t washed his feet yet, so he’s hanging his legs off of the end of the bed, kicking them lightly. 

Zuko looks at him like he’s talking nonsense. “Why what?”

“You know,” Sokka says, “we have some variation of this conversation every few days? ‘Why what? What what? Why?’” 

“Repetition keeps the new stuff more exciting,” Zuko says. He’s clearly joking, but he also looks a little hurt.

“Why do you need to have everything so precise? Life’s not precise, and I doubt you’re going to start a riot or cause an economical collapse if you’re short on cheese.” 

Zuko stares at the ceiling for a long moment. “Do you actually want me to explain my thought process, or do you just want to mock it? Because I feel like you’re going to mock it.”

Sokka turns to look at Zuko, propping his cheek on his hand. “Dunno. Depends on how insane it is.” 

Zuko sighs and throws an arm over his face. It half covers his mouth. “Okay. So. Take the riot. I’m not actually worried about a riot, but there’s several ways I could cause one if I’m not careful. The most obvious one is not keeping track of the touching schedule. Coming above decks is another risk, but a fairly low one. Cheese is hard to mess up to that point, but not if an angry customer decides to attack the ship and I kill him in self defense. And then what if he’s a beloved father and his children all—” 

Sokka laughs, burying his face in his arm to try and stifle it. “Ok, ok, you had a decent logic train up until the _cheese murder_.” 

“I’m not worried about the _cheese,_ ” Zuko snaps. He rolls onto his side, facing away from Sokka. “I’m worried about fucking up the treaty. There? Is that big enough for you?”

Sokka thinks he should probably read that treaty. Blech. _Reading._

“What’s there to fuck up?” Sokka asks, pressing his hand between Zuko’s shoulder blades, his favorite spot to pet when Zuko’s being grumpy. 

“I’m supposed to produce as much as I can,” Zuko says. “If I do less than that, then it’s not enough. So I have to do my best.”

“‘As much as you can’,” Sokka replies dryly. Spirits. Did they _know_ Zuko when they wrote that thing? That’s-- well, that’s giving an impossible task to someone who sees impossible tasks as a challenge to his honor. 

“I’ve done the math,” Zuko says. “I know my upper limits to a certain margin of error.”

Sokka sits up, still petting Zuko’s back. “That’s the thing,” he says, letting Zuko hear his irritation. “There should be actual expectations written in. Numbers. With failsafes, and accounting for unforeseeable outcomes. That language is _bad_ when you’re referring to a, a-- _governing_ piece of writing.” 

There’s a grumbling reply into the pillow, the only word Sokka hears being ‘faith’.

“Speak up,” Sokka says, poking him. 

“I said it’s a good faith agreement,” Zuko says, sounding defeated. “I do as much as I can, and the Southern Water Tribe agrees that I’m doing the best I can.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Sokka says cheerfully. “ _I’m_ the Southern Water tribe, and _I_ say you’re doing more than enough.”

“Why are all of you _like this,_ ” Zuko says, and pulls the blankets up until they cover his head, knocking Sokka’s hand off his back in the process.

“Like what? Actually treating you like a person instead of an entire farming colony?” Sokka teases. 

“Not a person,” Zuko says, which. Whoa. What?

“Excuse you?” Sokka asks, pulling the blanket away to look at his face. Zuko hides it further, hunching into himself with his hands over his ears. “What’s with the pity party, pal?”

“Just go to sleep,” Zuko says miserably. “I’ll be fine.”

“No way,” Sokka argues, trying to pry Zuko’s hands off. “I just worked myself to the bone and we’re gonna be stuck on a ship together all day tomorrow. Either cuddle and talk or I annoy you all night.” 

“If we’re going to be stuck on a ship together all day tomorrow, doesn’t it make more sense to sleep now and talk then? When we’re well rested?”

When Sokka had said _talk_ he meant _chat._ When Zuko says _talk,_ he means _have a serious and potentially harmful conversation._ Sokka groans and buries his face in Zuko’s hair. It smells like soap. Zuko relaxes, like that means he’s _won,_ with his terrible interpretation of what Sokka had been saying _._

“You never let me be nice to you,” Sokka grumbles, pulling his still dirty feet beneath the covers. Zuko hasn’t finished the window, and the chill is already seeping in. 

“...what does nice mean?” Zuko asks. “Has that changed?”

Sokka blows a raspberry on Zuko’s neck. Zuko squirms away, flailing backwards with the palm of his hand at Sokka’s face. It taps small, glancing blows against Sokka’s hair.

“Stop that!”

Sokka blows harder, catching Zuko’s wrist where it’s batting at his face.

“Fine!” Zuko says. “Fine! We’ll talk!”

Sokka reverses, sucking on Zuko’s neck in reward for good behavior. Zuko’s groan sounds more like a moan, and he arches again, this time in an entirely different way. His fingers catch on Sokka’s wolftail and pull. 

“Talk changed too?” Zuko asks, dazed. 

“Mhhm,” Sokka agrees, kissing him. 

***

Sokka wakes in a dream. It’s an unpleasant sensation.

“Things are about to get hard, wolftail,” Yue sighs. Sokka turns and sees her perched with her feet submerged in a pond, surrounded by crystals and stones. Two fish swim lazily around her ankles. 

“Spirit I am honored by your presence,” Sokka says as quickly as he respectfully can. Yue doesn’t visit for long in dreams. They’re usually just a way to give him a quick message. “Okay, counterpoint: what if they _didn’t_ get hard?” 

“Your honor withstands,” Yue says. Then she flops onto her back and starts swishing her long sleeve through the sand next to the pond, making marks like wings. “Haven’t got a choice about it, kid.”

Then she laughs, like she’s said something particularly funny.

“How can I make them...less hard?” Sokka tries, folding his legs underneath him the way that he’d been taught to when he prays. He doesn’t bow-- that’s a surefire way to wake up from the dream, prematurely and with his hand in a cup of water. 

Yue tilts her head to look towards him. It’s almost hard to tell the pure white of the sand from the pure white of her hair from her facepaint, her eyes pale like the reflection of the moon in dark water. 

“I already told you,” she says, and smiles. She flicks a finger upwards, shooting a stream of water at Sokka that he can’t dodge. It hits him just as she speaks, dragging him awake. _“Play nice.”_

“Waugh!” Sokka yells, shooting up and wiping water off of his face. 

“Urgh,” Zuko says sleepily, shielding his face from droplets. “Why are you _wet?_ ”

“The moon,” Sokka grumbles, diving back down into the covers and Zuko’s comforting heat. He’ll think about the dream in the morning; if he thinks about it now he’ll wake up, and won’t be able to get back to sleep. Sleep, which is pulling him under with strong hands as Zuko shifts around. 

Zuko yawns, stretching with a series of loud cracking noises. The sun has just started to rise outside, the cottage filled with weak morning light. 

“Hhhhngh,” Zuko says, and then rolls off the bed. Sokka grabs at him. “No. Do you need another hour of sleep, or can you get up now?”

“Need you,” Sokka slurs, pulling him back under the covers. The bed is bitter cold without him, and the draft from the taped up window is whistling. Zuko pets at his face for a moment, which is so _nice,_ he’s such a _nice dragon._

Then he starts patting Sokka’s cheek briskly.

“Stop!” Sokka says.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Zuko says. 

***

This boat ride is the worst boat ride Sokka’s ever been on. And he’s been on boat rides with Katara during her moon time. Zuko won’t stop drilling him on the itinerary, which is also meticulously written out with checkboxes. 

“And you know what to say at the bank,” Zuko says. Then he stares at Sokka, waiting for Sokka to say what he says at the bank. Again.

“I’m not reciting anything else for you,” Sokka snaps. “I’m a grown man, not a toddler taking their first trip to the market.” 

“The Southern Water Tribe has markets again?” Zuko asks, looking fascinated. Sokka flicks his nose. He scrunches it up in response, and there the fascination goes, settling instead into a grumpy little pout.

 _Play nice,_ echoes in Sokka’s head. 

“I’m the jokes guy in this outfit,” Sokka says. “You can be the…” He pretends to think hard about it. 

“Well, I’d never be caught dead in those clothes, so I guess so,” Zuko agrees. He’s struggling to keep the angry little pout, and losing. “I’ll be the smart one.” 

“Can’t expect Fire Nation to have taste,” Sokka sighs, looking at his Water Tribe parka and sealskin boots. 

“I’m more of a retro guy myself,” Zuko says. The corner of his lip is twitching.

The dockmaster shouts at them, letting them know they’re cleared to drop the hatch with a wave and a point. 

“Right-o!” Zuko shouts back. Sokka gapes at him. He is _not_ the jokes guy. He is _not_.

But he’s totally kicking Sokka’s ass at it. 

“What?” Zuko asks. 

“Shut up and kiss me, hotshot,” Sokka says. 

Zuko makes a face of disgust at him. “Sokka, we’re docking.”

“Not in public, we aren’t,” Sokka says, scandalized. Zuko makes the face where he knows that Sokka’s said something insulting but can’t place what it is, and Sokka settles for kissing that expression. 

The dockmaster yells at them to hurry up and stop blocking the harbor.

“Right-o!” Sokka yells back cheerfully.

Zuko laughs.

***

“This went well,” Sokka tells himself. He’s trying to make it sound convincing enough for Zuko, who is going to lose whatever little bit of sanity he has left. “That went _really_ well.”

“What went well?” Zuko asks from below decks. Sokka laughs nervously, and pushes the trolley with the four barrels of apples up the gangplank. 

It’s not like he can explain to him that this part of the nation is struggling from constant raids and wartime rations. Most of the folks here don’t have two coins to rub together, and if Zuko’s _books_ are anything to go by that’s not what his past experiences with them have been. Apparently they’d suffered a raid just a few days ago; fire nation pirates, which means that when the _actual_ fire nation navy comes there’s going to be nothing to give them. 

“When Yue wanes, she waxes again,” Sokka says. An apple barrel rattles strangely, bumping into the others.

Zuko shoves his head above decks.

“So they didn’t want any more apples,” Sokka says in a rush. “But it’s okay, because I bought some books on how to brew cider, and everybody _loves_ alcohol.”

“So instead of _making_ money, you _spent_ some,” Zuko says. It’s mild, though, and he’s clearly thinking about Sokka’s cider proposition instead of lighting the ship on fire. _Yes!_

“Aha!” Sokka says, and points a finger at him. He’d anticipated this. “I didnt get more lube, so we actually came out a bit ahead!”

The good mood immediately evaporates. “But you needed more lube,” Zuko tells him. He’s looking at Sokka very carefully, probably to make sure that Sokka isn’t going to be upset. Sokka is upset, but he’s manfully hiding it.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sokka says, and waves a hand. “I’ll make do.”

Zuko raises his eyebrow incredulously. “You’ll. Make do.” He frowns. “I am not going to be _made_ to _do,_ Sokka. Whatever weird--” 

“We’ll work out the kinks of our sex life later,” Sokka says quickly, shoving the barrels back to their home. 

_“Our?_ There is no _our_ without _lube_ , Sokka, it protects you from burns—” 

“It _what,_ ” Sokka sputters, and trips over a length of rope that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago. He falls directly into Zuko’s crotch. 

Zuko shoves him off, shrieking. “WE’RE IN PUBLIC!”

Sokka rubs his jaw where Zuko’s hand had connected. “You’re the one smacking me around.” 

“What does that have to—” and then Zuko turns bright red and shuts up. He puffs up, straightening his spine and his tunic, and heads for the apple barrels. “I’m getting these below deck.”

Sokka turns to look at the rope as he untangles his foot from it, and then laughs. The way it had been coiled into two separate piles, with a length in between them, meant when he tripped forward it had dragged the middle part up and out to form a sort of penis. Too bad Zuko went below decks before he could show him. 

“Funny,” he snorts, and puts them back on their pegs. 

***

“What the fuck is that,” Sokka says, staring at the deck. It’s making these… shaking, rattling noises.

“It’s just the apples,” Zuko says. He’s flat on his back, stripped down to his underpants and shirt rucked up, soaking in the sun. And also the brewery books.

“It’s not the apples, they didn’t do this on the way here.” Sokka argues. 

“There were more things in the hold,” Zuko says, and flips a page. “Kept them anchored.”

“Then we should go anchor them.”

“Mhhm.” Zuko flips another page. “Hey, what do you think about fire-root infusions?”

The entire deck shakes, and Sokka stumbles into the mast. Zuko just lays there peacefully. 

“I think I’m going to go anchor the apples,” Sokka says. “And I don’t even mean that as a euphemism.” 

He flips open the hatch that leads to the ladder. It looks dark down there. Really alarmingly dark, like the mid afternoon sunlight can’t penetrate the physical _wall_ of darkness. The ominous sounds have settled, but the silence only makes him _more_ jittery. 

Sokka swallows, and starts down the ladder. He’s torn between going slow and steady, not risking a fall, and skittering down as fast as possible so that his back isn’t to the hold for longer than it needs to be.

Now that he’s down here the rattling and shaking has stopped entirely. It feels like something is holding its breath. “I don’t think that the ocean has stopped pitching the ship around,” Sokka says. Zuko either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, and Sokka shudders. 

He walks closer to the apple barrels. There’s one that has definitely moved— it’s a solid five feet further from the others, in the darkest corner furthest from the hatch. The base of it starts rocking, a steady wooden _thump thump thump_ back and forth.

It’s _freezing_ down here. It gets colder the closer he gets to the barrel, his breath misting in front of his face and his fingers stinging as he reaches for the lid. 

He should get Zuko, but he has this— horrible feeling that if he leaves now, he’s going to come back down and it’ll all be gone and Zuko will be pissy he interrupted his reading. At least if he dies down here Zuko will know he was _right._

Sokka flips the lid off and screams. 

Something skitters out of the barrel and onto the wall, hissing at him, wings spread and scales extended like a hen-cat puffing it’s fur. 

“ZUKO!” Sokka yells.

Zuko must hear the terror in his voice, because he comes crashing down the ladder and is at Sokka’s back in a moment, flames dancing around his fists. 

The flames settle almost immediately when he sees the very small dragon hanging on the ship walls. “Oh,” he says sarcastically. “Good. I’ve always wanted a kid.”

The dragon blinks at them owlishly and flicks its tail. It’s tiny, maybe the length of Sokka’s forearm nose to tail, with coloration similar to Zuko’s in it’s red and blacks. The eyes are gold, identical to Zuko’s as they stare at them unblinking, fangs bared. 

“It’s a _child?”_ Sokka squeaks. 

Zuko crosses his arms. “We should put it back where it came from.”

“There are _more_?!” Sokka yells. Zuko frowns. 

“Spirits are assholes,” Zuko says. The dragon baby on the wall does a sort of cackle, and runs in a circle, talons clacking against the wood. “Wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Why are you in our apples?” Sokka asks it nonsensically. The dragon pushes the barrel over with its tail. It’s empty. Then it hiccups, a very adorable, apple smelling, icy blast of air straight into his face.

“There’s where the similarities end,” Sokka mutters. “Can you turn human?” He reaches out a hand, intending to touch the dragon’s scaly back, and yanks it away just before the teeth take off his fingers. 

“Sokka,” Zuko says in a pained and disapproving voice. “You can’t just make it turn human without asking.”

“I just _did_ ,” Sokka says, cradling his hand to his chest. The dragon cackles again and skitters towards Zuko, whip fast. Zuko doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as it jumps onto his shoulders and tucks itself underneath Zuko’s hair.

“We need to take it back,” Zuko says. It nuzzles at his cheek. “I can’t believe the baker didn’t buy our apples _and_ gave us a dragon. It’s incredibly irresponsible.”

They climb the ladder and start working on turning the ship around, the dragon curled comfortably along Zuk’s shoulders the whole time. It nips at Zuko’s fingers when he tries to brush it off and he sighs, focusing on the ropes. 

“I think he—” Sokka starts, but the dragon makes a small yowl of protest. “She?” 

The dragon just buries maybe-her face into Zuko’s shoulder.

“I think she likes you.”

“The wind changed,” Zuko says as answer, frowning. He scuttles up the mast and does some frankly impressive work with the sheets and ropes. The ship tips and starts to turn for a moment before the sails go slack as the wind changes again. Zuko’s hair flips into his face and he sputters, the dragon gliding down to perch on Sokka’s shoulder with a cheerful screech. 

“Goood dragon,” Sokka says hesitantly. Her claws are digging in, not deep enough to cut, but enough to indent the skin as she balances. _“Nice_ dragon?”

“SSsssccchhhhnnooooope,” the dragon says, and chomps on his wolftail. 

“Zuko!” Sokka calls, as the wind changes again and almost pushes Zuko off the mast. “Zuko, I don’t think she wants to go back!”

“She can get her own human!” Zuko yells down. The wind pushes him so that he’s hanging by one hand, claws dug into the mast. “I called this one!”

The dragon titters and kneads at Sokka’s shoulder painfully. Sokka watches Zuko struggle to stay upright and calls out to him in worry. “Will you come down from there?”

“None of this would be happening!” Zuko says, and slaps his other hand onto the mast, scoring deep into the wood as he hangs on. He’s almost horizontal to the mast now, a wind that isn’t even ruffling Sokka’s hair. “IF YOU HAD SOLD THE APPLES.”

The wind stops suddenly, slamming Zuko painfully into the mast, and then starts a whirlwind around him in an attempt to drag him down. 

“This is really not the best way to convince him,” Sokka tells the dragon. “Just make him feel sorry for you, I don’t think it’s possible to beat sense into him. You just beat what little sense he has out.”

The dragon grins at him, all sharp teeth, and launches into the whirlwind without an issue to clamber up Zuko’s side. She slips underneath his shirt, which garners a shriek, and Zuko lets go of the mast as he tries to pull her out. 

He twists so that he lands on his back, protecting the small dragon from the fall, and Sokka can’t help but laugh at him.

“Sokka!” Zuko says. The dragon’s tail is peeking out through his right shirt sleeve, her head bouncing up against his chin through his collar. “Help me!”

“I dunno,” Sokka laughs, “this seems out of my area of expertise.” The dragon licks Zuko’s chin. 

“What, now you can’t _fight_ either?” Zuko snarls. “Your area of expertise is whatever isn’t helpful to me!”

“I’m not gonna battle a _baby,_ ” Sokka says, scandalized. 

“Coward,” Zuko spits. Despite his words, he’s not doing much to battle her either. She curls up into a little lump directly on his stomach, and starts purring. Zuko just lays on the deck with his arms akimbo. “I know girls who would _kill_ a baby.”

“Sounds like bad company,” Sokka says, kneeling to scratch the dragon between her horns. 

“Don’t get to choose your family,” Zuko says. He sighs, and looks down at the dragon on him. Hesitantly, he raises a hand, presents it to her to sniff.

That sounds like baggage. They should probably talk about that. Instead he watches Zuko with the tiny dragon, warmed by the way his expression opens, awed. 

The dragon twists to look up at Zuko with big, liquid golden eyes. She juts out her bottom lip, which a real feat considering she barely has one. She’s a different kind of dragon than Zuko— her face is snub and adorable, instead of long and fangy. Or. Well, it’s still pretty fangy. But it’s _adorable_ fangy.

“You’ll have to do chores,” he tells her. “And you can’t kill anything on the island without asking first.”

She gives Sokka a look and he shrugs. “I know, I know. Gotta listen to him though; he’s bigger than both of us.” She glances at Zuko dubiously and huffs, little snowflakes dusting Zuko’s face. 

“It’s less chores than Sokka has,” Zuko reassures her. “Do you like having hands? One of Sokka’s chores is to make sure we can be human shaped whenever we want.”

The dragon tilts her head and rolls off of Zuko. She wraps her wings around herself like a cocoon, stretches, and when Sokka blinks there’s a tiny girl. 

“Okay, what the fuck,” Zuko says. She sits up and grins toothily. 

“Language!” Sokka says, and kicks at Zuko’s side.

“What the fuck,” she says back, picking her nose with a pinky finger. “You can’t change back without this dope?” She looks to be around 7 or 8 years old, round cheeked with long, black hair and Zuko’s complexion. 

“No, I’m stuck with him,” Zuko says wearily, and Sokka kicks at him again. Zuko sits up, pulls off his shirt. “Here, you want it?”

“I want a dress,” she says, but takes the shirt and pulls it over her head. It hangs comically off of her shoulders. 

“I can sew,” Zuko says. He’s smiling, all soft and warm and awful. Sokka feels like he’s getting hives just seeing it. Something acidic is building in his gut that feels dangerously like hope. “And embroider. I can teach you, if you want.”

Sokka sits next to her so that he can make eye contact without looming. She blinks at him. “Do you have any parents?” He asks her seriously. “Because if you’re running away, we’ll have to take you back.”

She grins, sharp and angry in her round little face. “I got nothing but trouble, and I don’t run away from _anything_.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explicitly written animal death in this chapter, guys! Message if you need a tldr <3.

They don’t learn very much about the dragon in the days after bringing her to the island. She prefers to stay in her dragon form, much to Zuko’s chagrin, and when she does have a human mouth and tongue to easily form dialogue, it’s to bombard Sokka and Zuko with questions, rather than answer any of her own. 

“We don’t even know her name!” Sokka groans into Zuko’s neck. They can hear her splashing around in the surf, cackling. 

It’s getting too cold for even Sokka once the sun sets, but the dragon is immune.

“Why does she have a catch phrase,” Zuko groans. He’s got Sokka’s hands pressed up against his face in lieu of his own. He smacks them gently against his forehead. _Bop bop bop._ “What kind of kid has a _catchphrase?”_

“She hasn’t got a catchphrase,” Sokka mutters. “She’s got—”

“Nothing but trouble,” they chorus together.

There’s the tell-tale patter of feet on the packed dirt out front of the cottage, and the girl comes rushing through the door, ass-naked and soaking wet. Sokka sees his life flash before his eyes as she launches herself into the bed, covered in mud and dead leaves. 

“Y-you! _You!”_ Zuko says, dropping Sokka’s hands.

“Hah-ha!” she cheers, and shakes her long, soaking hair at him. “Get up lazy-butts!” She crawls over to Sokka and cackles when he tries to keep her tiny, freezing hands off of his face. “Feed me! Feed me!”

“She gets this from your side of the family,” Zuko says sourly. He’s already moving out of the bed though and towards the kitchen area.

“Meat!” she calls, hands buried in Sokka’s bedhead. He smells something foul and knows it’s coming from whatever she was rolling in underneath the water. 

“Fish,” Zuko says. There’s some cupboard rattling. “Or canned chicken.”

“Soap,” Sokka finishes, holding the girl up by her armpits. She doesn’t even try to break his hold-- and she could, easily-- just tilts her head and lets her seaweed-heavy hair slither down his arm. _Gross._ “Then meat.” 

“Oh, good, you’ve volunteered for bath time duty,” Zuko says blandly. He’s pulling out a pot. “I’ll make cougar-elk stew if you take one.”

The girl wrinkles her nose and turns on Zuko. “I can take a bath,” she accuses. “I’m not a baby.” Sokka’s just excited for the prospect of _stew_ and tries to shush her before Zuko changes his mind. 

“I know,” Zuko says smoothly. “That’s why you’re going to make sure Sokka washes behind his ears. He always forgets, and they get _stinky._ ”

She grins and grabs at his ears, yelling about checking, and Sokka scowls and tosses her off of him. She bounces off of the bed and crashes to the floor, still laughing, feet up in the air. He thinks there’s a dead fish between her toes. 

“Play nice!” Zuko snaps, startling so badly he almost drops a set of glass spice bottles.

“Leave my ears alone,” Sokka mutters, but he’s blushing a little in embarrassment. It’s not like this is _Katara_ ; he can’t just go throwing her around when she annoys him. The girl blinks up at him as he offers her a hand and an apology. 

“THROW ME AGAIN!” the girl yells, and grabs his hand with both of hers.

“Throw her into the ocean!” Zuko says.

Sokka makes a dramatic heaving sound as he lifts her up, scooping the basket of towels and clothes conveniently left by the bed-- Zuko’d been planning this, apparently-- and carries her over his shoulder and out into the cold. 

Life on a tropical island has been nice, but there’s something about the sharp, dryness of the breeze that comforts Sokka and reminds him of home. 

Summer at home, but still: home.

“I can wash in the river,” the girl tells him, kicking her feet as he makes his way towards the eastern caves. There’s a fire pit and a giant clay bathing tub set up there that he’s planning to use. She’s surely seen it, and true to her age doesn’t seem inclined. 

“You sure you don’t want the hot bath?” he asks.

“Nope. No soap either.” 

Sokka laughs. “Have fun catching your own breakfast. If you come back any less than sparkling, Zuko’s going to burn down the hut.” 

“No he won’t,” she argues. “He’s like a little rat-dog. All bark, tiny bite.”

“Maybe a rat-dog with fire powers,” Sokka says. “Trust me. Just get it over with and your life will be warmer and filled with good food.” 

“He likes me more than you,” she says confidently. “I’ll be fine.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes. “Last chance,” Sokka offers as they reach the river and the tiny bridge built to cross it in the winter. It looks like it’s sagging; he’ll have to talk to Zuko about what kind of lumber he uses to mend it. 

“You’re right,” she says, and when he glances at her, attention caught by the odd tone, there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “It _was_ your last chance!”

And then a strong breeze pushes them both into the river.

Sokka splutters, breaking the surface with a shout. It’s fucking _cold._

“LET ME HELP YOU WITH YOUR GIANT EARS!” she yells, crawling up his back and kicking him in every bone his torso has.

“LET ME GET SOME OF THAT DIRT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!” Sokka yells back, splashing around for the soap and grabbing at her face. She screams, wiggling out of his grip, and he tackles her into the river, laughing. 

***

The stew is going well. 

Nothing else is going well. 

Zuko...can’t seem to bring himself to care about that. 

As he measures out spices, he thinks about all the ways she’s disrupted his schedule. She’s lowered his margin-of-error highest effort by… _a lot._ Both of them have. But he can’t even resent them for it. 

It’s not like anyone who wrote the treaty could have foreseen this. There’s no _in case of children_ addendum. 

And they’d been careful not to provide Zuko with a sacrifice who could necessitate adding one.

But— this isn’t even a child, really. This is a spirit child. Someone like him, but far more wild. He doesn’t know who cursed her, or why, but she’s so much younger than he was. That she hasn’t gone mad, that she can change on demand— 

She’s different. She’s like him, but she’s _different_ , and she won’t talk about it. Sokka thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to, had looked at Zuko pointedly. 

Fair enough. 

Zuko thinks it’s less dire than all that orphaned business that Sokka had inferred from her ‘having no parents’. It’s more like she’s playing a game with them, but they don’t know the rules and she’s happy enough not telling them. She’s like a cute, cuddly Azula. 

Zuko shudders. 

Okay, so she’s _nothing_ like Azula.

But she’s … something alright. And Zuko is… 

He stares down at the countertop. It’s empty of ingredients now, everything bubbling merrily in the pot. And he’s…

Happy?

***

“She threw me _into the river_ ,” Sokka tells Zuko, bowl balanced on one knee, arm tucked around it to protect it from the girl’s viper-quick snatches of the cougar-elk meat. Of _course_ she doesn’t steal any of the potatoes. 

“You threw her off the bed,” Zuko says with a shrug. “How’s your food?”

“Meat,” Sokka moans, turning further away from the girl. Zuko spoons some of his into her bowl and she scowls. 

“Not you,” Zuko says, and rolls his eyes.

“MEAT,” the girl says. 

“It’d make this a lot easier if we called her a name,” Sokka muses around a mouthful. Zuko wants to remind him to chew before talking, but at this point what’s the use? 

“I don’t _got_ a name,” the girl says proudly. “I got nothing but—”

“Trouble,” the table choruses. 

“And I wasn’t talking to you,” Sokka adds, pointing his spoon at her. “On account of how you don’t have a name.” 

“You sure you don’t want to pick one? Or a nickname?” Zuko asks her. “Sokka’s got terrible naming skills. You’ve seen what he did to the new chick-kits.”

“Let’s call her Gerdy,” Sokka grins. “Or Meatball.” 

“No!” she yells, scrunching up her nose. “Those aren’t even what they call me.” Zuko glances at Sokka appreciatively. That’s more than they’ve gotten from her yet. 

“If me and him both call you Meatball long enough then that’s what a new they calls you,” Sokka says. “Meatball.”

“NO!” 

“Daisy,” Zuko says, and slurps up a big spoonful of stew in order to keep his straight face at her disgusted one.

“If you _gotta_ ,” she grumbles, and Sokka hums. “Then call me Trouble. Cause when you see me, you say—” 

“--Here comes Trouble,” Sokka finishes, laughing. “You’re a real piece of work, kid.” He says it appreciatively, though, mussing up her hair where Zuko’d braided it and wound it against her head in two little buns. 

“That seems mean,” Zuko says, frowning. “Is that mean?”

“I call _you_ Zuko,” she says. Her empty bowl clatters to the table top, and she crosses her arms defiantly. “Even though it’s a terrible mouthsound.”

“What does that even mean,” Sokka says, but Zuko shrugs and nods. 

“No, she’s right,” he says. He pulls a face as he slowly sounds out his own name. “Zzzzzuuuukoooo.”

“It BUZZES,” she yells.

“You can call him mom,” Sokka offers lightly. She laughs, but Zuko kicks at him under the table, glares with a _we’ll be talking about this later_ look.

“Yeah _mom_ ,” Trouble teases, “you gonna make me wash my ears?” 

Zuko turns red, and kind of melts. It’s… adorable. Why’d he kick Sokka if he’s going to look so happy about this?

“Yep,” Zuko says, and dumps the rest of his meat into her empty bowl. “But not till tomorrow.”

***

“You have to get over your issues with girls,” Zuko hisses into Sokka’s ear. “I know when you’re trying to insult me, and she shouldn’t have to think her _gender is insulting.”_

Sokka’d been hoping that when Zuko slid up behind him and wrapped an arm around his middle to pull him close, that it meant _sexy time_. Instead it’s just _lecture time._ He should know better by now.

“I was just joking,” he says, turning in Zuko’s arms and dropping the shovel’ he’d been taking to the cow-moose pen for mucking. 

“And how’d your sister like it, when you _joked_ with her like that?” Zuko says. He looks like he already knows the answer, even though he’s never even _met_ Katara.

“You guys need to lighten up,” Sokka sighs, trying to kiss him. Zuko moves out of range of Sokka’s puckered lips. 

Zuko’s eyes narrow, and then his features smooth out. Oh no. Oh no, he’s had an _idea._ A _fix it_ idea. “Well. I guess you can’t help it. You’re only a dumb boy, after all.”

“Hey!” Sokka says, and then feels even more indignant when Zuko gives him a satisfied look, all sleepy-eyed contentment. Like a lizard. “I see what you’re doing, I mean! And it’s not gonna work.” 

“Of course,” Zuko says, and presses a kiss to his cheek before pulling away. “It’s just joking.”

“It is just joking!” Sokka calls after him. 

“Let me know if you need help reading the chore wheel!” Zuko calls back. “I know you men struggle with that kind of thing!” That’s kinda on the nose, with how much Sokka hates to read. 

“You’re a man too!” he yells stupidly. 

“Haven’t you heard?” Zuko yells, turning around to walk backwards, arms spread wide. “I’m a new mother!”

“Man,” Trouble says, swinging upside down from a branch. She’s naked, which means she shifted just to be able to talk to him. “You’re whiny for a grown up.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Sokka says automatically. She swings from her hips, headbutting him so that he stumbles back a step.

“No I won’t,” she says just as confidently. “I’m never growing up.” 

Then she falls off the branch, directly into a mud puddle that splashes Sokka, and runs after Zuko.

Well, if he’s gonna have to take two baths in one day, at least he’s getting the cow-pen mucking out of the way. 

***

“Have you seen Glenda?” Zuko asks Sokka, nabbing his arm. 

The number of chores is winding down as winter approaches. They’d even had time to fix the window. It also means that there’s more time for Zuko to micromanage the chores that are left. 

Like the hen-cats.

“She gets out of her pen like, every other day,” Sokka says, and pats Zuko’s hands. He sees movement in the distance, behind Zuko’s back, and frowns as he twists to look closer.

Oh, Spirits. 

“I’m sure that she’s just roaming around the island!” Sokka says loudly, making shooing motions with his other hand to Trouble. Trouble, whose face is covered in blood and feathers.

“There are so many cougar-elk,” Sokka adds, “I bet she’s hiding--” 

“She’s not scared of them,” Zuko says reassuringly, “they run away from her when she pecks at their hooves. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times. Do you thing Trouble’s been chasing her around again?” 

“NO,” Sokka says, and shoos harder. Zuko tries to turn around, but Sokka grabs him by the shoulders. “Let’s have sex!”

Zuko narrows his eyes at him. “What are you hiding?” 

“Only this massive erection, _mmm,_ ” Sokka says, and plasters himself to Zuko’s front. He silently instructs his penis to harden. Nothing happens, which Zuko seems to recognize, pulling out of Sokka’s grip. 

Trouble is picking the marrow out of the bones, crunching them in half and slurping. Yue, that’s _raw_ , _no._ Her tail swishes happily from the branch she’s perched on, and she looks up at them and grins toothily. Bloody, bloody and toothily. 

Zuko turns, and sees her. 

“Save yourself!” Sokka calls, wrapping both arms around Zuko’s neck and his legs around his waist to try and slow him down. 

Trouble burps. The mist that comes out is red. Sokka gags a little.

“If you throw up on me,” Zuko says in a dark voice. 

There’s no follow through on the threat, but there doesn’t need to be. The unknown is more intimidating. 

“Trouble!” Zuko calls. Sokka’s heart is pounding, thinking of that first day— how furious he had been. Back when they were strangers. “Trouble, please come down from there, we need to talk.”

What?

She chirps at them and keeps munching, cleaning down from between her claws with a black tongue. Zuko sighs, smoke slipping from between his lips, and crosses his arms. Sokka carefully sets his feet back on the ground and unwinds himself from around Zuko. 

“I’m not going to take the rest of the hen-cat from you,” he says. “You can finish first.”

“But,” Sokka says, “it’s--”

“--I _know_ who it is,” Zuko snaps, fire chasing his words. Oh. He _is_ upset, ok. The world hasn’t completely turned on its axis. “But unlike _some people,_ she’s a _child._ ”

“Hey,” Sokka says, but thinks better of continuing. Zuko doesn’t let him get away with it, of course. 

“I’m sorry, would you like me to treat you like a child?” Zuko asks. “Because I can. But I assumed you enjoyed being talked to like an adult.”

“Wouldn’t be much different,” Sokka shrugs, and then shrieks when tacky talons settle on his shoulder. Trouble’s breath is icy against his ear. 

“Sure it would,” Zuko says, in that awful patient voice he uses when they’re fighting. Mostly when they’re fighting and he wants to do chores. “I understand if you can’t see how, though. You’re just a boy.”

Trouble cackles and leaps from Sokka’s shoulder over to Zuko, wrapping herself up in his hair like a blanket and purring.

“Nice try,” Zuko says, petting her snout. “You can’t cute your way out of this. A woman has died, Trouble.” 

Trouble and Sokka both roll their eyes. 

“Can you change, please?” Zuko asks politely. She whines, but drops from his shoulder and wraps herself in her wing cocoon again, reappearing in that weird mirage-state. 

He crouches down so that he’s on the same level as her. “Why did you eat the hen-cat, Trouble?”

She seems taken aback by the serious tone in Zuko’s voice. The serious, _calm_ tone. Sokka gets it; he’s a bit weirded out too.

“Um,” she says, shrugging. “I dunno.” There’s a bloody feather stuck to her cheek. 

“That’s okay,” Zuko says. “But we’re going to figure it out, because I would rather it doesn’t happen again. When Sokka first got here, he also ate a hen-cat. He ate it because he was hungry, and didn’t know where the food was. And then also because he was angry and scared of me.”

“I was not--” 

“Yeah, that sounds like Sokka,” she nods. Sokka can see that Zuko’s trying to use this as a teaching moment, but he’s gonna have words about saying he’s _scared_ in front of a kid. 

“I think I was playing?” she says, like a question. Trouble tilts her head and squints, thinking. “When I’m a dragon it’s different. Yeah, I think I was playing.” 

“That makes sense,” Zuko says. “I have problems like that when I’m a dragon, too. But I’m much bigger than you, so I have to stay human as much as possible.”

“You have _what,_ ” Sokka sputters.

Trouble looks over Zuko’s shoulder and grins. “Sometimes we wanna _eat you_ , Sokka!” She snaps her teeth and giggles when Sokka takes a few steps back. 

“Hey,” Zuko says, but he’s laughing too, the dastardly, dragonly traitor. “Okay. So do you think if we play more it will help you not eat another hen-cat?”

Trouble shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I dunno. I don’t wanna talk anymore,” and then she rolls herself up and skitters away across the forest floor, disappearing into the brush. 

“Hmm,” Zuko says, remaining crouched, squinting after her. He’s clearly thinking very hard. 

Sokka nudges at his hip with his foot. “You want to _eat me?”_

Zuko turns and shows him his teeth. “All the time, Water Tribe.” The flirt doesn’t quite land, and Sokka kneels down next to him and lays a hand on his back. 

“You okay? I don’t really get it, but I know you really care about those animals.” And they’d seen a little girl eating pieces of it moments ago. 

Zuko sighs. “No. I’m not okay. But she— they— _you_ need me to be. So I’m fine.”

“What’s that mean?” Sokka asks. He brushes Zuko’s hair aside to pick Trouble-debris off of his shoulder. 

“Means I’m editing the chore wheels,” Zuko says, and settles into a cross legged position. Sokka follows suit. “Do you think you could throw her at the fish instead of a spear? I bet that would be fun, if inefficient.” 

A startled laigh bubbles out of Sokka at the image. “Yeah, I think she’d like that. What else?” They should probably have this conversation inside. Zuko’s already shivering next to him, so Sokka pulls of his parka and pulls it over Zuko’s head. 

“She’s too small to hunt cougar-elk on her own,” Zuko says. He’s playing with the scales on his hand, rubbing them up straight and then back down. Trouble doesn’t have any the of the same dragon indicators as a human that Zuko does-- she just looks like a girl, aside from slightly pointed ears and teeth. “But it’s almost winter— I’ll need less help with the chores. You could go on trips with her… Trips. We can take her on shipment trips, too.”

Most of Zuko’s face is buried in the fur lining of Sokka’s parka. His cheeks are red, eyelashes long and dark, and Sokka feels like he could shatter him in this moment, if he tried. 

“I wish you wouldn’t—” Zuko starts, before cutting himself off. “Um. Bug hunting in the spring and summer.”

“I wouldn’t what?” Sokka says, softer than he means to. 

“Try to distract me with...stuff,” Zuko says, and waves his hands vaguely. “Y’know. _Stuff._ ”

Sokka pulls his hands away slowly where he’s been rubbing them along Zuko’s arms. “Oh,” he mumbles, embarrassed. 

“Not—” Zuko huffs out, and puts his hands back. “I mean earlier. Pick a fight or something.”

Well, that’s even more embarrassing. “Um,” Sokka says, looking away, “Okay. I-- do you mean, just when I was being weird with Trouble or like, all the time?” Cause he thinks his fuck-or-fight method has really helped smooth their relationship thus far. There’s lots of stuff he thinks they both know they can’t talk about, after all. 

“I dunno,” Zuko says, and buries his face further into Sokka’s coat. “I… You don’t have to stop, that was stupid, it’s just. Sometimes you remind me a lot of someone I knew.”

That’s like a knife between his ribs, and he can’t help the way his hands freeze. He knows that Zuko sees something on his face, and he does his best to cage it away and smile weakly. _Someone he knew._ A past love, probably. That Hekka guy, if Sokka was a betting man. 

“Okay,” Sokka says, standing. “Uh. Good talk? I’ve gotta go--chores. Y’know. Wheels.” 

Zuko flops onto his back. Stares at the sky. Waves a hand at him dismissively.

***

Zuko should really stop trying to talk about things. It doesn’t ever seem to go the way he wanted it to.

***

“How’d you get that scar?” Trouble asks him one day when he’s trying to teach her how to embroider. He’s working on a summer robe for Sokka, but Trouble’s using old cotton for practicing. 

His hands twitch, and he loses the progress with his Earth Kingdom knots. Fuck.

“Which scar,” he asks, buying time.

“ _Zuko,_ ” she says, and it sounds just like the way Sokka says his name when he’s exasperated. Her tiny claws are picking at a squared Earth-Kingdom knot that’s too loose, trying to tighten it. 

“Hm,” Zuko says. He starts twisting the thread around the needle again, counting the rotations. 8 for this knot, to keep it the same size as the other ones. “You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to ask some questions. It’s...easier that way for me to talk about it.”

“I know what rhetorical is,” she says. The knot comes loose, threads fraying. “I’m gonna make this say _butts_ and sew it onto the back of Sokka’s tunic,” she adds cheerfully. 

“Thatta girl,” Zuko says. He pulls the needle the rest of the way through the fabric, tightening his own knot. It comes out fine, despite the shaking in his hands. “Have you ever seen bad parents? And not bad parents like, they won’t let their kids go to fun stuff or play.”

“Bad parents like they throw their kids into the pig-rabbit pens and try to strangle them,” she says easily. “Or like they make them live on the front porch and beg for money but don’t give them any food or clothes or blankets.” 

Zuko nods. He has to still his hands for a moment on the hoop, takes a breath. “Yeah. Both of those, sort of. I come from a family of very powerful firebenders.”

“This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place, you know,” she says. “I see lotsa’ stuff. I’ve seen lots.” 

“I know,” Zuko says, and smiles at her. “You’re braver than me. It still scares me to talk about it, even though it happened a really long time ago.”

“I ain’t scared a nothin’,” she mutters, eyes narrowed as she struggled with the thread between her hands. He can’t tell if she’s acting nonchalant for him comfort or if she’s really not paying attention.

“My father was a very bad man,” Zuko says quietly. “And once I tried to stop him and his friends from doing something that would kill a lot of people.” 

“So you fought him?” she asks, awed. 

Zuko shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. “I thought that I was going to fight his friend. I didn’t realize that he was the bad one. And when he came to fight me instead, I… froze.”

There’s a look on Trouble’s face, like she’s gone somewhere else. It’s a distant gaze, over his shoulder, and she tilts her head and frowns gently. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, and reaches out with a foot, nudges her toes.

“Who’s Azula?” she asks, glancing over to him. 

Zuko freezes. But— not really. He’s got ice in his bones all of a sudden, and he’s shivering with it. He sets his embroidery hoop on the floor, to stop the needle pricking at his thigh. 

“Wh-where did you hear that name?” he asks.

He’d compared her to Azula. He hadn’t _meant_ it. And he’s never believed in reincarnation either— but here’s a dragon child, golden eyes and mischievous smile and pure black hair. The only other dragon he’s ever met, and she followed him home, claimed him as family.

She looks scared all of a sudden, eyes widening, tracking up and down Zuko’s body. She drops her own work, a squiggly _B,_ and rushes to her feet.

“I’m sorry!” she yells, backing away. He’s not flaming, or smoking, he doesn’t know why she’s suddenly afraid of him. 

“No, Trouble, it’s—” Zuko says, reaching out a hand towards her. It’s shaking, and she backs away from it.

“That’s not nice!” she’s yelling, but it’s not at him. She’s not looking at him, instead looking over his shoulder again. 

He turns. There’s nothing but the wall. 

Trouble’s eyes well with tears, her chin wobbling, and she rushes out the door as it opens, Sokka coming through with an armful of firewood.

“Woah!” Sokka yells as she barrels past him. 

“...it’s okay,” Zuko finishes, too late.

Sokka does a double take at the wall behind Zuko, frowning. 

“What?” Zuko asks, turning to look at the wall. It’s just a wall. “What did you see?”

Sokka shakes his head, sets the firewood down in its rack in the kitchen. “Nothing. Just a trick of the eye. What’s with Trouble?”

Zuko swallows, threads his trembling fingers together and squeezes. “I think…” he starts, but trails off. “I don’t know. I think I don’t know.”

“Zuko,” Sokka says, and it sounds so much like when Trouble had said it that he feels tears welling, burning his good eye. 

“I don’t _know,_ ” he says, covering his face with one hand, hunching miserably in on himself.

“Did you get in a fight?” Sokka asks, kneeling next to Zuko and wrapping his arms around him. He pulls him into his lap and Zuko tucks his head under his chin.

“She—” he takes a steadying breath. It catches in his throat, comes out as a sob. “She just knew a name she shouldn’t have. I think— she was looking at the wall. Right where you did.”

“What name?” Sokka asks, rubbing his back. 

Zuko just shakes his head. He’s gone over 300 years without saying it. He’s not going to start now.

Sokka doesn’t even tense, just nods his head and keeps holing Zuko. “Okay. Do you think she’s-- I don’t know, dangerous? She looks Fire Nation, but she’s just a kid.” 

“No, she’s not— if she’s seeing the. The _spirit._ That’s who’s dangerous,” Zuko says, and takes a deep breath. _She looks Fire Nation_ echoes in his head, but he’s _not_ asking questions, he’s _not._ “Go— go after her. She feels bad. The spirit tricked her.”

“Spirits,” Sokka curses, and doesn’t get up. He squeezes Zuko tighter and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We’ll talk more when I get back, okay?” 

“Sure,” Zuko lies, and pushes at him. “Tell her I’m not mad. I’m going to… ocean… for a while.”

Sokka nods, grabbing the little parka he’d asked Zuko to make for her out of his spare one. He heads out, looking for Trouble.

***

Sokka finds her outside the hen-cat pen, tail swishing side to side as she stares through the slatted fence.

“Hey,” he says, and she ignores him, hunkering lower. One of them comes too close to investigate, used to Zuko, and she bumps it’s nose with hers gently. 

“Zuko said he’s not mad,” Sokka says. Figures he should just… get that out of the way. She doesn’t respond, so Sokka sits next to her, facing the hen-cats. 

“You know,” Sokka says casually. “My best friend is the Moon Spirit.”

Trouble twists her head away from the hen-cat pen to pin him with a disbelieving glare.

“It’s true!” he laughs, glancing at the clear sky. The moon’s shining above them, not quite full. Well, Yue’s broken rules for him before. 

“You wanna meet her?

Trouble hunkers down closer to the ground, turns her head back to staring at the hen-cats with a huff. 

_Yue, I’ve never tried to use you to impress girls before,_ Sokka prays silently. Oh, she’s gonna _love_ that opening. _And I promise I’m not going to make a habit of this! But just_ look _at her._

“Follow me,” he says. “We need water.” 

He gets up and starts walking, unsurprised by the long pause before he hears tiny feet crunching in the frost behind him. 

He’s a little bit surprised when she jumps on his back, human arms wrapping around his neck. But only a little. 

“Oof!” he says, staggering dramatically forward. Trouble doesn’t laugh, but she does tuck her chin on top of his shoulder. He offers her the parka and she takes it, slipping it over her head. There’s some fancy finagling where she tries to get her arms through the sleeves without letting go of him, and where Sokka does his best not to fall over.

When they get to the shore he kneels in the sand the way he’d been taught. Trouble eyes him suspiciously and follows suit, hands on her knees. 

“My Spirit,” he says into the surf, the moon shivering in it’s reflection. “I would be honored by your presence.” 

“Your honor withstands,” says an unfamiliar voice. Sokka startles, falling backwards with a shout.

There’s a spirit standing on the sand, wearing Yue’s robes. That’s about where the similarity ends. His hair is all wrong— big chunks of white fur strapped to his head and to each other with blue hair ribbons. The breeze blows some into his nose, and his eyes open wide in alarm.

“Ah-ah- _ah,”_ the man says, chest puffing up with air, arms windmilling frantically. **“CHOO!”**

He flies ten feet in the air, and the fake hair flies right off his head, dissipating when it spreads too far from him.

“ _Aang,_ ” complains a decidedly more familiar voice, and Sokka turns to see Trouble frowning at him. “You’re not s’posed to tease people in a _mean_ way.” 

“She’s right,” says Yue, who comes around behind the spirit--Aang-- and picks some fur off of his shoulder. 

“Aw, he loves it,” Aang says, feet thumping into the sand and spraying it straight at Sokka. “Look at him! He’s smiling!”

Sokka is picking sand out of his teeth with his fingers so his lips are...technically stretched back. 

“Nah, that’s his poop face,” Trouble says, and gives Aang a high five when Yue giggles. 

“He’s shitting himself with joy!” Aang declares.

“So,” Sokka says to Trouble, flopping back to the ground and crossing his arms, “obviously _you_ have a spirit friend too. Thanks for sharing, by the way.” 

“It’s not like you share me,” Yue chides him. 

“That’s different,” Sokka complains. “I’m a grown man! Nobody believes me when I say I talk to spirits. The kid should have told us.” 

“And they’d believe a little girl?”

“ _I_ would,” Sokka says. Yue tilts her head. 

“That’s true,” she agrees. “But she didn’t know that. Because you don’t share me.”

“Hi!” Aang says, bending at the waist to offer Sokka his hand. He’s got these weird blue arrow tattoos on his head and hands that glow, and it looks like he’s probably about his age. “I’m Aang! I’ve been watching out for Trouble--” 

“--But you never see me coming!” she jeers, pointing at him. 

“And _I_ am the spirit of,” he twirls in a circle, and as he does the copy of Yue’s robes morph. The wind whips around him, tearing the robes into rags and rebuilding them just as fast, until he’s settled in strangely cut orange and yellow tunic and pants. “FUN!”

Huh. So this is the asshole who almost launched Zuko into the sea. 

The sand at his feet is dug in the shape of penis. Another bit clicks into place.

“You tripped me!” Sokka says, pointing at the dick in the sand. 

“You thought it was funny!” Aang counters. Then he brushes aside the dick before Trouble can peek around Sokka and see it. 

“Don’t lie,” Yue says when Sokka splutters. “I know you, you totally did.”

“Wait wait wait,” Sokka says, palms up. Yue smiles benevolently and sits next to them, hair and robes drifting gently in their blue glow. “Do you know why Trouble’s a dragon?” 

“Trouble knows why Trouble’s a dragon,” Yue says evasively.

Sokka looks at Trouble. She shrugs, a real nonchalant _yeah, and?_

He looks back at Yue. Yue shrugs at him.

“What’re you guys doing, cursing a _kid_?” he asks. 

Yue crosses her arms, frowning at him. “Who told you it was a curse?”

“Zuko,” Trouble says. “I bet it was Zuko. He can make _anything_ a curse. I once heard him make sugar a curse.”

“It is bad for you,” Sokka allows, brows furrowed. “But-- he’s different than Trouble. A _lot_ different.” 

Yue shrugs. “That was before my time, and Aang wasn’t involved at all. You could ask Zuko’s uncle, if he’ll come.” 

“He’s a dragon _too?”_ Sokka says. “How many people are dragons!”

“He’s not a dragon,” Aang says, floating upside down and poking at Trouble, just out of reach for her to poke him back. 

“He’s dead,” Yue adds helpfully. “But Iroh…” she sighs deeply, rubs at her temples. “It makes him sad to see Zuko. So you’ll have to ask very nicely.”

“And how do you suppose I summon a _dead person_ ,” Sokka asks dryly, mind filled with possibilities and worry. This could be huge for Zuko, seeing his uncle again. He speaks so fondly of him, and Sokka gets the feeling that he was the only person Zuko truly considered family. 

“He likes leaf water,” Trouble says. She cups some water from the tide in her hand, breathes on it until it turns to soft snow. Then she rolls it in her hands, packing it together. “It’s like, really gross. I think dying gave him bad taste or something.”

“Trouble,” Sokka says. “Speak nice of the dead.”

“Why?” she asks, genuine. “They don’t speak nicely about us.” 

Sokka ignores that as Aang laughs, asking, “you’ve met Zuko’s uncle? Trouble, is there a reason you’re here?” 

“Well, you’ve clearly got this all figured out,” Yue says, and leans in for a quick kiss against Sokka’s cheek. Her lips are so cold that they burn on his skin. “I’ll catch you later, wolftail.”

“Wait, Yue—” Sokka starts.

Yue disappears just as the snowball would have hit the back of her head, and it crashes straight into Sokka’s face instead. Trouble cackles, clapping her hands. 

“You don’t,” Sokka says, wiping snow off of his face, “throw SNOW at the MOON!” 

“She thought it was funny, though,” Trouble says. Aang’s laughter ghosts behind him even as he disappears, and Trouble looks pleased with herself.

“My friend is funner than yours,” she tells him. 

“That’s because if Zuko was a spirit, he’d be a spirit of— of chores,” Sokka argues. He crosses his arms, feeling like he’s lost this fight.

“I was talking about the moon,” Trouble says.

“Oh. Well, she’s prettier,” Sokka blushes, scratching at his beard. 

“Gross,” Trouble says, squinting at him. “Sokka. You can’t _date the moon.”_

 _“I know,_ ” He hisses, shivering in the winter night’s breeze.

Her eyes open with delight. “Sokka. Did you _try_ to date the moon?”

“Trouble,” Sokka warns. “Do not tell Zuko.” 

“Tell him about your crush on the _moon,_ ” she says, prodding at him until he’s standing. “Even when it would _really_ cheer him up? And he’s _so_ sad?”

“Trouble,” Sokka groans.

“He’s _so sad,_ and it’s your duty to cheer him up, by any means possible,” Trouble says gleefully. 

Ok. Trouble’s having fun and all, but he really does need to talk to her before they go back to Zuko. He’s learned a lot in the last few minutes that he has to work over, and he’s not ready to face Zuko with any of it until he’s absolutely sure he’s in control of the information he’s been given and what it means. 

“I’m serious. This is all very important stuff to Zuko, and a lot of it has hurt him. I don’t want him worrying about spirits until I’ve had a chance to talk to him,” Sokka says. 

“...yeah,” Trouble says, sounding bummed. “He doesn’t have the best luck with spirits, does he?”

“Who did you see in the cottage?” Sokka asks her, surprised when she crawls into his lap and leans against his chest. 

Trouble wrinkles up her face. “I don’t know if I should say. She’s very close. We might call her. And she’s _mean.”_

Zuko talks a lot about the girls he knew as family. When he does, it’s _nasty_ anecdotes. Poisoned knives, tripwires, this concept of girls who are fine killing _babies._ Sokka knows almost nothing about Zuko’s past-- hasn’t read the treaty-- and he won’t push for it. Zuko’s not pushing him for information about his family and tribe, after all.

But it gives him an idea of who might be close by, ready to be called.

“If you see her again, get me. Unless she’s with Zuko-- bring Zuko to me, instead of leaving him alone. Okay?” Sokka tells her seriously. 

“She can’t touch him,” Trouble says, but nods. Her eyes are wide. “He can’t even see her.”

Spirits, she’s only _eight._ He bundles her close and hugs her. “I know. It’s all okay, Trouble, you don’t have to worry.” 

“What are we going to tell him?” she asks. She sounds worried. 

“That you feel bad for scaring him. So hopefully, the truth.” Sokka answers. “I’ll handle everything else.” 

She frowns up at him, looking unimpressed with this strategy. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re _really_ bad at talking to him. He can’t get mad at me, either.”

“This is for grownups,” Sokka says, tweaking her nose. “Unless you’re ready to grow up already?” 

She pushes out of his arms, pointing a finger so close to his face it almost goes up his nose. “If you mess this up, I’m growing up, and I’ll be taller than you, and you’ll be _sorry._ ”

Sokka smiles, leaning back on his palms to watch her storm towards the cabin. If he messes this up, they’ll _all_ be sorry. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! We're starting to get into plot~~ and so there's QUITE a bit of conflict in this chapter. It's all verbal arguments, but it's pretty angsty. Take care of yourself! The next few chapters will likely be similar as the characters work to resolve their conflicts. This fic DOES have a happy ending, and there WILL be character resolution before the plot resolution that sees the characters happy again! -Mello

Zuko’s got his hair up in a bun when Sokka finally returns to the cabin. This is notable, because Sokka’s obsessed with the pretty line of Zuko’s neck when his hair is in a bun. All he wants to do is kiss it, and hold Zuko, and nuzzle into the warm spot beneath his hairline. 

Unfortunately, Trouble is glaring at him, already curled up in Zuko’s arms and top of her head tucked under his chin. 

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says to her, holding her tightly. “I never meant to scare you.” 

“I ain’t scared a nothin’,” she grumbles, begrudgingly snuggling more insistently into Zuko’s arms. She’s still glaring at Sokka. Sokka sits down next to them and lays his hand on Zuko’s back, ignoring Trouble. 

“Are we ok?” he asks. He means _are the three of us going to go back to normal or is this going to become a Thing?_

Zuko’s eyes widen in distress at the question, and he stares blankly at Sokka. “ _Are_ we okay?” he asks, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that they weren’t.

Sokka is _so_ good at this being a leader thing. Calming his tribe, small as they are withe just the three of them-- encouraging confidence. He’s _great._

“Yes,” Sokka says firmly. “Yes, we’re okay.”

Zuko is staring at him suspiciously. His mouth keeps twitching, and then he glances down at Trouble, and Trouble glances up at him guileless and innocent, and he visibly swallows his words.

“About what you saw,” Zuko finally manages, brow scrunched up in concern. 

“What’d I see?” Trouble asks, and starts picking her nose. Sokka admires this bold tactic in misdirection, even if it’s a bit obvious. “I see lotsa things.”

Zuko pulls her hand down and swats at it gently. “Gross. I don’t know what you--”

Trouble reaches up to pick _his_ nose.

“Trouble!” Zuko shouts, but there’s a laugh tailing it as he swats at her, capturing her hands in his and glaring at her. 

“So were you gonna teach me how to embroider a butt or,” Trouble says, and puts her hands politely in her lap. Sokka watches them, because Trouble doesn’t do _anything_ politely.

“Teaching the girl the finest fire nation skills, I see,” Sokka jokes, and Zuko huffs, a bit of smoke on the exhale. 

“What? You don’t like Fire Nation butts all of a sudden?” Zuko asks, raising his eyebrow. Then dropping it. Then raising it again. 

Holy spirits, he’s attempting a _waggle._ And _failing._

“You’re adorable,” Sokka tells him, grinning, and leans in to kiss him. Trouble shrieks, far too loud for the small cottage, and shoves her hands onto the sides of Sokka’s neck to push him away. 

Sokka screeches even louder than she did, neck burning with the cold as he pulls away. When he touches his neck there’s a noticeable temperature difference, and Trouble’s hands are _blue._

“Trouble!” Zuko says.

“Why!” Sokka yells, rubbing at his neck. Trouble looks startled, and then mad. 

“You told me to keep Zuko distracted!” Trouble accuses, pointing a blue finger at him.

“Sokka’s _delicate!_ ” Zuko starts, clearly gearing up for another ‘Sokka is only mortal’ lecture, but then abruptly stops. He swings his face to glare at Sokka instead. “Sokka?”

Oh, shit. Zuko’s got that calm, quiet glare. The one where he’s _thinking_ before he’s feeling. The one that means they’re about to have a _serious conversation._

Sokka does the only thing he can think of.

He lies.

“It’s Water Tribe secrets!” he says desperately, hands in the air. Trouble’s mouth drops open in an incredulous and contradictory kind of way, and he waves his hands. Desperately trying to convey _anything you want, you little demon, just let me get away with this._ He can’t talk to Zuko about spirits until he knows better what it means to him; he needs to read the documents waiting for him, Bato’s book and the little stack of treaties and guides left by the previous sacrifices. 

He’s trying to protect Zuko, but he can’t _tell_ him. Zuko’s face shuts down, his shoulders stiffening and straightening. He swallows, clearly hurt, the way he always is when Sokka reminds him that he’s keeping secrets. 

“Right,” he says, and puts Trouble down. He inches toward the door. “I have to… go… not figure things out!” 

“You’re sad,” Trouble accuses, pointing at Zuko this time. “Sokka made you sad!”

“HAHA,” Zuko says, grimacing and shouting the syllables. “HAHA WHAT A FUNNY JOKE HAHA I’M EXTREMELY SATISFIED WITH MY LIFE.”

And then he scampers out the door, clawed feet kicking up sand in a cloud behind him as he runs into the woods.

“Zuko!” Trouble yells, vaulting over the table to get to the door. Sokka tries to stop her, because Zuko really is better off processing alone and coming back to talk to Sokka later. He misses, because she’s inhumanly fast, and then she’s taking off after Zuko, the underbrush cracking as she disappears. 

“Yue,” Sokka swears. He hears a laugh on the wind.

*** 

Right. Right. So it’s— Water Tribe secrets. Which means Zuko can’t figure it out, he can’t think about it, and _why the fuck is Azula a Water Tribe secret?_

She died. He _knows_ she died. She broke herself on the walls of Ba Sing Se at Ozai’s orders, 16 years old and not allowed to touch a human for over a year. She can’t be—

Gods. She can’t be alive.

He’s crouched in the sand under a tree, trying to breathe. The breath that hits the sand isn’t even hot. He feels like all the fire has been sucked out of him, which is good, since his control is gone with it. He’s— Uncle wouldn’t abandon her, would he? But Uncle had set Zuko up here. Maybe— maybe he went back for her, took care of her. 

And it’s been 400 years since then. 400 years, and Iroh isn’t still around, maybe even his legacy faded in his descendants. 400 years and if he found Azula, if he saved her, then he’s not there to _protect_ her anymore. And Zuko’s just been— on a fucking island—

“Zuko!” Trouble cries out, tackling him from behind. Her arms go around his neck and she buries her face between his shoulder blades. He didn’t grab a coat or a parka and can feel her tears through the silk of his robe. 

“Tell me she’s not alive,” Zuko says. It’s a horrible thing to ask of a child, but he can’t ask Sokka anything at all. He can live with anything else, with any other secret. But not that one.

“Sokka told me not to say anything,” she says wretchedly. She’s trembling. “But I don’t want to lie to you, Zuko. I don’t lie to my friends.” 

“Shh,” Zuko says, rocking her. “No, I’m sorry, that wasn’t— that wasn’t right to ask you, it’s okay.” He twists around and her arms tighten, afraid he’s going to push her away, and then relaxing when he pulls her into his lap for a proper hug. 

“It’s not right for him to keep secrets,” Trouble mumbles. “Even if he promised to tell you later.” 

“He...” Zuko starts, and then frowns. Tell Zuko later? No— stop thinking about it. “We have responsibilities, to keep other people safe. And sometimes that means secrets we have aren’t ours to share. I’m… it’s complicated. But I trust Sokka to do the right thing.”

Trouble’s silent for a while, breathing heavily as she tries to stop crying. Eventually she asks, timidly, “Would you see your uncle again? If you could?” 

_“Yes,_ ” Zuko says, instantly. And then, “What? He’s— isn’t he—how do you--”

“Secrets,” Trouble mumbles.

Zuko’s arms tighten around her, reflexively. Right. Okay. Secrets. Secrets he swore on his honor that he wouldn’t attempt to uncover if the Water Tribe thought that he shouldn’t have access to them. And they’re about his family. His _supposed to be dead_ family.

“She’s close,” Trouble mumbles. “And she’s mean. But… she’s dead.” She says, slowly, like she’s really thinking hard about it. 

Zuko—

Zuko doesn’t know how he feels about that. There’s the relief, first, the relief for himself and for her. Then the disappointment, the second wave of mourning for the sister he had and the sister he’ll never _get_ to have. The one who died hating him, likely, and will never get a chance to feel something else. 

Trouble shoves out of his arms suddenly, wrapping herself up and skittering up a tree as a dragon and starts hissing at nothing. 

“It’s okay!” he calls after her. _She’s close, she’s mean, she’s dead_.

Trouble can see spirits. 

“It’s okay,” he says. He almost says _she’s not going to hurt us,_ but catches himself. Because historically, she’s tried. And he wasn’t there at the end for her, he doesn’t know how she died or where she was with her own demons. 

If she could hurt him, she probably would. But he can’t even see her. Trouble, on the other hand… 

“Come on,” he calls. “You shouldn’t be alone out here with her. We’ll have dinner.”

There’s some more hissing, the branches of the trees frosting, small icicles forming. 

“Second dinner,” Zuko says enticingly. “I’ll give you more meat.”

Trouble drops onto his shoulder and curls around his neck, shaking. “Protect,” she says around her teeth, garbled. 

“Yeah,” he says, petting at what bits of her he can reach. She’s still pretty scaly. “I’ll protect you.”

“You,” she coughs out, tail thrashing. 

“Me,” Zuko agrees, and heads for the cottage. Trouble hisses in frustration, but doesn’t try to talk again. He knows from experience how painful it is to make human words with a dragon mouth.

***

They don’t talk about it. 

They don’t talk about it, and Sokka knows it’s because Zuko’s a better man than him. Zuko’s the kind of man that sees an impossible situation and manages to grit his teeth and keep going, because he’s the bravest sonofabitch Sokka’s ever met. He’s not sure if he could handle the not knowing, if it was him. He’s not sure if he could handle the secrets. 

So they don’t talk. 

It’s actually amazing, how little Sokka and Zuko talk about something that haunts every moment of every interaction. Sometimes Sokka daydreams about how he’ll write the book for the next sacrifice— not that there will necessarily still be a Southern Water Tribe in fifty years to collect sacrifices from. He calls this chapter: Lying Is Stupid, Don’t Ever Fucking Do It.

“What’s for dinner?” Zuko asks, popping a hip against the counter as he peers over Sokka’s shoulder.

“It’s a secret!” Sokka says, and hunches jokingly over the ingredients as if to hide them.

There’s a strained moment of silence, and then Zuko says, “Of course. Wouldn’t want to _intrude._ ” And walks away.

Sokka stares down at the fire flake crusted fish. Surprise. He’d meant it’s a _surprise._ Because it’s Zuko’s favorite.

Suddenly he’s not hungry anymore. He keeps cooking, because it’s his turn and he’s got a responsibility. But he sets his portion aside. 

Zuko barely even smiles at his, even though he says very politely, “Oh, my favorite, thank you so much for cooking, Sokka.”

Trouble hunches over her plate and hisses as the fireflakes steam in her mouth. She eats Sokka’s plate too, and the remains of Zuko’s. Then she hunches down and flies out the window in a violent flurry of wings and claws without a single word. 

***

Another day. Winter is setting in, and they’re trapped on the island for a few months while the worst of the stormy season passes. 

Some people are taking it better than others. Zuko is all of the _some people,_ he feels, because Sokka and Trouble are going _insane._

“I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE!” Trouble howls at the door, and makes no move to open it.

“Then go outside,” Sokka says, voice fraying with frustration around the edges.

“IT,” Trouble yells, gaining volume with every word. Zuko hunches further over his embroidery. “IS. RAINING!”

“Then play. In. The. Rain,” Sokka answers, examining his fingernails where he’s hanging upside down off of the bed. 

“Sokka,” Zuko says reprovingly. They don’t have to _both_ be children about it.

“What? She’s a fucking _dragon_ , a little bit of rain isn’t going to hurt her.” he snaps. 

“You’re right,” Trouble growls, and her stance goes wide, fingers raised in a curl and mouth snarled. “I _am_ a fucking dragon.”

Zuko throws his embroidery in his hurry to tackle her. It lands in the fire, but he doesn’t really care about that— Trouble is snapping and twisting, still in human form but fighting to get at Sokka.

“Be the bigger person!” he yells, at both of them. 

Sokka’s sitting up and watching them with disinterest, arms crossed. Trouble shows no signs of calming down, so Sokka opens the door and steps aside. 

“Are you going to help me?” Zuko hisses.

The rain pelts at them through the doorway, icy and miserable. He gestures sarcastically. “Go play!” 

“Oh, go _fuck_ yourself,” Zuko snarls, and lifts the still struggling Trouble out into the rain. The ground is slippery, and he’s going to have to dunk her in the ocean until she calms down. His clothes are going to be _ruined._

“What!” he throws his hands up. “I’m the _only one_ who can’t go out in this!” Zuko ignores him and he slams the door shut, glaring at the puddle that’s formed by his feet. 

It takes two hours before Trouble is sodden and laughing, unable to remember why she was so upset in the first place. Restless energy, probably— Zuko’s been feeling it too. With Trouble, his...usual winter coping methods… aren’t an option.

Zuko’s clothes are ruined, but when he comes back into the cottage, sees Sokka huddled up, working on salvaging Zuko’s project with his feet hanging off the edge of the bed, he gets to press his cold hands to his toes. And the indignant noises he makes are pretty good, and Trouble nips at Sokka’s calves and any part she can reach, and dinner is warm.

It could be worse.

***

It gets worse. 

***

“Please,” Sokka whispers against the back of Zuko’s neck. “Please forget about the chores this _once,_ we are _alone_ ,” and he demonstrates his intent with a hand down Zuko’s pants.

“I—” Zuko says, arching up into his hand. Gods. It’s been too long since they’ve done anything, alone _or_ together. It used to be easier to steal moments, but with Trouble off— killing hen-cats, chasing cougar-elk, destroying the local ecosystem, who _cares—_ for more than half an hour it’s hard to say no. He doesn’t _want_ to say no.

“No,” he groans, pulling Sokka closer. “Shipment in two weeks.”

“We won’t make it two more weeks,” he moans, grinding against the curve of Zuko’s ass, shoving his pants down. 

“No, it’s—” Zuko pants, flailing out for the nearest chore wheel. He shoves it backwards blindly, so that Sokka can see how few he’s gotten through.

Sokka freezes.

“Uh,” Sokka says, and then laughs, startled and genuine. “Okay, rude.” Sokka pulls his hand away and Zuko pulls his pants up, sitting up.

“What?” Zuko asks. He starts to pull the chore wheel back, so he can see what upset Sokka. 

Sokka’s hand catches his wrist. “Oh. Oh my Spirits. You didn’t do that.”

“Do _what,_ ” Zuko snaps, tugging lightly. “Sokka, let me see the chore wheel.”

“If you didn’t,” he says quickly, “that means it was _Trouble._ Zuko, remember it was Tr--” 

Zuko pulls his hand harder, breaking Sokka’s grip. He flushes, panicked. If it was Trouble, if she disappeared because she _pranked_ something, then she’s— she’s _nearby._ Watching. That overrides the panic of _what happened to my chore wheel_ , but only until he sees it.

All of the drawings have been replaced. There’s Sokka with buck teeth and a unibrow, identifiable by a scribbled wolftail and blue shirt. She must be using the colored pencils Zuko gave her, and he takes a moment to admire her fine motor ability to draw that small. There’s one of Sokka with a butt on his head, and one of Sokka picking his nose, and Zuko--Zuko, sitting on a throne on Sokka’s back. He laughs, bewildered. In the center, where he writes his weekly notes, says BUTTS. 

It is kind of funny. He snorts, even though it’s going to be a pain to replace them again. And he’s going to have to run around the island for two hours rechecking to see if he already did the things he thinks he already did until he can relax. And she worked hard on this. She worked hard on this because she _wants_ them to laugh. 

So Zuko makes himself laugh some.

“Okay,” Sokka says hesitantly. “Who replaced you. Zuko? Are you in there?”

“She wouldn’t have thrown out the old ones,” he says absently. Then the thought settles, heavy and prickly. Oh. Oh, Agni. “She _wouldn’t_ have thrown them out, right?” 

“No,” Sokka says quickly. “No, of COURSE she wouldn’t.” He turns his head towards a window, speaks with exaggerated facial expressions at the glass. “OF COURSE TROUBLE WOULDN’T THROW THEM OUT OR LOSE THEM. SHE KNOWS HOW IMPORTANT THEY ARE TO YOU.”

“Oh Gods,” Zuko says, starting to hyperventilate. He drops the chore wheel so abruptly that he hears something inside of it crunch when it hits the table, but he can’t care about that. 

“Hekka’s!” he says, rushing out the door and towards the caves where he keeps most of the things he and Hekka build together. He doesn’t like to keep them in the cottage; they’re too painful, even after all these years. 

The yearly chore wheel carved into the wall has been scribbled on with chalk, but he doesn’t care about that. He heads for the bookcase, pulls out the newer boxes of chore wheel slips. As he gets towards the back he can see the disturbance in the dust, that they’ve been moved recently. No. No, she wouldn’t. They’re too _fragile_ , she wouldn’t—

He tears the lid off the box that holds Hekka’s, hinges snapping. 

There’s nothing but tea stained paper with more scribbles on them, _Sokka, Sokka, Sokka,_ Sokka who crawled into his life and made everything _worse_ , and he can’t even leave _this_ alone.

Zuko throws the box at the wall, the fake chore slips fluttering out.

Sokka’s standing in the mouth of the cave, watching him. Trouble’s curled around his neck, her snout buried under the fur of his parka hood, eyeing him wearily. 

Zuko takes some deep breaths. They’re not enough, and so he tries taking them faster. 

“Crying,” Trouble crackles, ears flat against her head. Sokka’s staring at him intensely, but makes no move to come closer or comfort. Good. Zuko would gladly burn him right now, if he was only given the opportunity. 

“Where,” he asks through sobs, pointing at the box he’d thrown. 

She whimpers, and Sokka pulls her out of his hood calmly. Her claws stick to the lining and he has to yank them off, tearing it, before he can set her down. 

“Zuko asked you a question,” he says softly. He kneels down. “It’s ok. Just show him where they are and he’ll feel better.” 

He’s thinking of the worst already. Even if she didn’t destroy them— she’s not _malicious—_ it’s the rainy season. He keeps things in the cave because the cave has never flooded, and the cottage is damp and fluctuates in temperature a lot. It’s been raining all day. If she didn’t hide it here, or in the house….

They’re old. All he has left of Hekka is so old. So fragile. Half dust already.

Trouble moves with her belly low to the ground, ears back, and hugs the wall to stay as far from Zuko as possible, as if she’s worried he’s going to lash out. He’s too upset to reassure her, worried that if he reaches out or speaks it will make the wrong impression worse. Once she’s behind him she darts away and into the piles of old potato sacks he’s been meaning to find a project for. 

She backs away with one between her teeth, dragging it along the floor of the cave, and Zuko yells and leaps for it. 

Zuko tears the sack open before it can get caught on any of the stones. On the very top is a drawing, the three of them. He has the barest moment of regret for how he throws it away from him, for the shocked and hurt whine from Trouble.

Underneath is a mess of ancient papers. They’re— crumbling. Of course they are, they’re always crumbling, half dust no matter how careful Zuko is with them. But the sack, the transport, and they’re… 

Sokka’s kneeling next to him, Trouble’s drawing in his hands. He’s petting at the creases, staring intently at it, frowning. He doesn’t look at Zuko.

“You need to decide where your priorities are,” he says to Zuko and then stands, scooping up Trouble and leaving the cave. He leaves the drawing. 

Zuko stares at the dust and paper fragments, at all that’s left of years of meticulous preservation. 

He breathes in. Breathes out fire, burns it all to ash, burns it until the stone floor beneath is scorched, until his throat is sore from the screaming.

***

There’s enough snow that Sokka builds an igloo for Trouble. It’s tiny, but she doesn’t shift out of her dragon form anymore. 

Zuko says sorry. Of course he says sorry. He even means it, Sokka thinks. He brings Trouble treats and tries to play with her every single day, ignores the upcoming shipment beyond the barest necessary preparation. He doesn’t ask her to apologize.

The worst part is that Sokka understands. He knows how precious Zuko’s memories are, how little he actually has in this strange fantasy world he lives in. But Trouble’s a _kid_ , and Sokka’s got a lot of opinions on kids. 

He writes to Katara, _I have an orphan. Can you send someone._ He keeps it in his bag, tucked in the secret pocket. He’ll send it at port, make sure that it gets to her. The hazard pay will be extreme, but he doubts Zuko will fight him on it. Not that Zuko has any right to: Zuko works for the Southern Water Tribe.

And Sokka’s the Southern Water Tribe.

***

She’s not coming back. Sokka waits on the deck of the ship, hands gripping the railing. He doesn’t know if she’s not coming back because she’s still upset about what happened with Zuko, or if it’s because she found the letter in Sokka’s coat. When he’d gone to send it, Trouble had been at his side. When he’d reached in to take it out, both her and the letter were gone.

So he grips the railing, tension growing, sickly vines around his heart.

“Where’s Trouble?” Zuko asks sleepily. He’s still dragging himself out of the hatch, hair mussed. Prime target for Trouble to swoop down on, crowing. Zuko’s been leaving himself open like that a lot lately. It had even started working, sometimes.

“I don’t know,” Sokka admits. “I don’t know if…” He shades his eyes with his hand, trying to see past the milling people on the docks, looking for a tiny Fire Nation girl with Water Tribe loops in her hair. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Zuko asks. His voice is tense, and the sleepiness has left his posture entirely. “She was with you.”

“She ran away,” Sokka says. “I was hoping she just wanted to cause mischief, but she has a watch. She knows when we’re leaving.” It’s well past when they were supposed to leave. Sokka even gave the dockmaster an extra coin for the overage. Compared to what he’d been willing to spend on the letter, it’s nothing.

“But— _why,_ ” Zuko asks. He sounds shaken, is actually shaking when Sokka glances over at him. “It was getting better. She was talking to me again. I don’t understand.”

His impulse is to lay it out for Zuko, cruel and pointed. He wants to blame him, wants to take out his hurt on him, but that’s not fair. She wasn’t having the best time with him, either. Instead, he settles on the truth, sharp as it is between his ribs to admit. 

“She was never ours, Zuko.” 

“She’s a _human being,_ ” Zuko snaps. “She’s not _anyone’s._ Why do you look guilty?”

Trust Zuko to recognize guilt so rapidly. Sokka wipes his hand over his beard where he let it grow in over the winter, cutting his eyes away from where Zuko’s are accusing him. “She wasn’t happy with us. We have to stay there, but she doesn’t.” 

“Shut up,” Zuko barks. “This— no. You’re hiding something. You’d be blaming me, you wouldn’t be acting _mature._ What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Sokka yells, throwing his arms up and thrilling guiltily at the way Zuko flinches. 

“Oh, you just _miraculously_ turned into a functional adult willing to spread the blame around?” Zuko mocks. He takes a few steps back, but they’re not an angry reaction to Sokka. He’s defending him, making sure that Sokka can’t get hit if he starts breathing fire. 

It makes Sokka unreasonably angry.

“ _Neither_ of us are fit to raise a kid,” Sokka points out meanly. It hurts to say it, they both know that having a family is one of Sokka’s greatest desires. One of his deepest regrets. 

“She didn’t need someone to raise her,” Zuko says. 

“Yes she does!” Sokka yells. “She’s _eight_. She’s a _baby_ and keeping her was selfish.” 

“Keep—” Zuko’s eyes widen. He takes another step back, stumbles away, fire sparking at his lips. “You got _rid_ of her?”

Despite the fights they’ve gone through, the secrets and the misunderstandings, Sokka is still completely surprised that Zuko would think something so dastardly of him. Partially, because he’s _right._

“She ran off,” Sokka says slowly, jaw clenched to keep from trembling. 

“But you know why she ran off,” Zuko says slowly, fists clenching and unclenching. “She heard you, or saw something. You were— trying to be _responsible._ What, were you interviewing fucking parents? Hey, random human, how would you like a traumatized spirit touched child who’s thirty times stronger than you? Oh? You don’t? Well, just contact me if—” 

“Looks like you’ve got it all figured out!” Sokka shouts, losing his patience, giving in to the temptation, finally, _finally._ It feels good, feels righteous.

“I wrote a letter to Katara asking her to send someone! Because we’re bad for her, Zuko. We ask her to lie, and we spit in the face of her kindness, and we _scare_ her, and she was never, ever ours to have.” 

“SHE CHOSE US!” Zuko roars. 

“THE SPIRITS TOLD HER TO!” Sokka screams back. He can feel the blood in his face, throbbing, pulsing angrily through him. He breathes, or else he’s going to start hitting something. He breathes, and it burns. 

Zuko goes silent.

“What,” he says, voice choked. “Does your crisis of faith put so much faith in yourself that you think you’re the only person whose opinion matters?” 

“She didn’t choose us,” Sokka says softly. “And it’s not right to keep her when we’re not even able to handle ourselves. You’re being selfish.” 

“No,” Zuko says tightly. “You’re being cowardly. You can’t face what you’ve done. And that’s so sad for you, that really is. Because I’m never going to let you _forget it._ ”

“I did _nothing,_ she _ran off--_ ” he’s interrupted as someone starts to climb the gangplank, and Sokka turns. 

“And where’s the letter?!” Zuko demands.

“Right...here?” the messenger hesitating at the edge of the boat says. He holds a letter between two fingers awkwardly. “Soh-ka? Of the Southern Water Tribe?”

“Oh, what the fuck,” Zuko asks loudly. Sokka ignores him. 

“That’s me,” he says, and pulls down his hood to show the messenger his Chief’s necklace, assuming that’s the identification he’d been given. 

“Oh, good,” the messenger says. He doesn’t even glance at the necklace, instead eyeing Sokka’s ears. “This is from Katara.” 

...yeah. It’s definitely from Katara. 

“Do you need postage?” he asks.

The messenger shakes his head and glances over at Zuko. Zuko seems to have gained three inches in height from pure suppressed fury, and is exhaling tiny sparks that are incredibly obvious in the dark night. He presses the letter into Sokka’s hands, scampering away. “I’m.. I’ll just be going then. Off to… deliver mail!”

Sokka thanks him and opens the letter, ignoring Zuko, who’s presence seems to get bigger the longer he’s ignored.

_Sokka,_

__

__

_It’s Gran._

He sucks in a breath, a culmination of everything that’s been going wrong hitting him. A tear slips over his cheek, absurdly. He wipes at it and another one follows, fat and hot, and he scrubs at that one. 

“What?” Zuko asks. His voice is still rough with emotion, but there’s a thread of concern there too. He takes a few steps forward— not to stand behind Sokka, where he could read over his shoulder, but politely facing the back of the letter. He’s not even looking at the paper, instead staring intently at Sokka’s face.

“Not sure yet,” Sokka chokes out. “Hold on.”

_She asked to see you, as her last wish. Because she never got to see Tanno come back. I said that was stupid, because it’s not going to be her last wish if I have anything to say about it. She said I don’t, and to write you._

_I don’t know what it’s like there, but he’s a dragon, isn’t he? There’s not much I can do with the supplies and training I have. If you can get leave, see what else you can get. Don’t endanger yourself. But this doesn’t have to be it. Maybe Yue did send you to him for a reason. Dragons are powerful, and rich. Some healing herbs can’t be worth much to him. Uncle Bato says he’ll help, if you ask. Gran-Gran says she’d rather die._

_Sokka, I’m worried she will._

Katara wants him to ask Zuko for help. The thought makes him ill, sour spit on his tongue, and he swallows thickly and rereads the letter quickly.

“What?” Zuko asks, sharply, worried and hurt and still steaming for a fight. 

“My grandmother,” Sokka snaps. “She’s dying.” _Can you do anything?_ “I need to send a letter back tonight so they know I can’t return and give her a different final request.” She won’t be able to pass on peacefully into the spirit world unless her final request is fulfilled. Katara thinks Gran can survive, but Katara’s an incurable optimist.

“What? Is she— there isn’t anything we can do? Food, medicine?” Zuko asks. 

Sokka ignores him, shoving past to climb down the ladder that leads to the rooms below. He’s pretty sure there’s a calligraphy set in one of the chests. 

“Hey!” Zuko says, catching his arm, holding him there. “Sokka, we need to talk about this.”

“No,” he says clearly, pulling his arm out. “We don’t.”

“Yes,” Zuko says, but doesn’t grab him again. “We do.”

Sokka turns, jaw working and eyes still wet, far too wet. He meets Zuko’s eyes defiantly. 

“She raised you, didn’t she,” he asks. His jaw is clenched, his arms crossed. 

“You want to help?” Sokka accuses, voice cracking. 

“Of course I want to help you, you piece of shit!” Zuko yells.

“Send me home. Send me home with supplies and medicine.” 

Zuko winces, even though he had to know that would be the answer.

“No,” Sokka repeats, “we don’t have anything to talk about after all.” He slides down the ladder, needing to get away. 

“One week,” Zuko calls, head shoved through the hatch to stare down at him. Sokka stills, listening. “I can’t—look, the treaty doesn’t give _me_ much leeway. But I can handle a week. If I… if I had been able to say goodbye to my Uncle…” 

“I’ll take a charter there from here,” Sokka says, calculating. Zuko can take the ship back to the island himself, and they have everything he’d need to bring-- Trouble had distracted him, and he hadn’t managed to sell much. There’s food, and fire root and other medicines, and even a crate of hen-cat chicks screaming below decks. 

“Yes, fine,” Zuko says. “There’s— the bank, that I have you drop money in? You can withdraw, too. I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, I mean, it’s in the pamphlet, but you— anyways. It’s the Southern Water Tribe’s money. There’s… there’s a lot in there.”

The bank had explained that to him the first time he’d deposited, and he nods. “I’ll only take out enough for the charter,” he promises. 

“Whatever you want,” Zuko says. He’s still hanging face first through the hatch, hands caught on the sides, blocking the way back up.

Sokka doesn’t say thank you. There’s too much going on inside his head, inside his heart. He works methodically, using a dolly to push out the crates, the hen-cats clucking away at the top. He hails the dockmaster and gives him the coins needed to get him a dock boy to move his luggage and find him a charter that’s headed towards the tribe. Nobody stops there anymore, but he can pay for them to detour. 

The boy comes, and Sokka returns from the bank to see Zuko standing at the rail, watching him, face drawn. Sokka climbs back up to the deck and steps in close. 

“This doesn’t fix anything,” Sokka says, which is a horrible start to a goodbye. He feels like he’s leaving half of his body behind, knowing that he won’t touch Zuko for a week.

Zuko smiles at him. It’s a very angry smile. “It’s not meant to. It’s the honorable thing to do.”

He hasn’t touched Zuko in hours. Zuko needs to be able to sail the ship back. He tells himself that those are the only reasons he pulls him close, wrapping his arms tightly around him, holding him as close as he can without bruising him. 

Zuko’s breath catches in his throat, and his hands hesitantly slide up the back of Sokka’s shirt, pressed flat to the skin of his back. To get the most contact out of it, of course.

“One week,” he says softly.

“About Trouble,” Sokka starts to say, but Zuko shakes his head. 

_“One week,”_ Zuko repeats, firmer. “Just… see your family. Tell Bato—”

Sokka waits for a moment, but no message seems forthcoming.

“I think I can guess,” Sokka says gently, and kisses Zuko’s forehead. He’s still angry. He’s angry, and hurt, and confused, and jealous, and sad. He doesn’t have time to feel any of those things, though. 

Zuko stares at him, eyes half lidded the way they get when he’s feeling particularly dragon-y, particularly un-inclined to act human. 

“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think you can.”

“Luggage is all moved, sirs!” the dock boy says cheerfully. “Sorry to be interrupting your goodbyes of course, nothing like a tearful farewell between lovers—”

When Sokka and Zuko turn to stare at him, he’s holding his hand out, babbling as he waits for his tip. 

“--to get the heart just gushing with charity, that’s what I always say, yessir, I love love and I love to see love between two—” 

Sokka pulls away and slaps a coin in the boy’s palm. Zuko’s hissing, animalistic, and he throws his arm around the kid’s shoulder and drags him away before he can get a good look at Zuko. 

“--true love,” the dock boy says happily, “That’s what that is, look at how upset he is that I interrupted your lengthy and very touching goodbyes, it’s touching me right on my heart it is—” 

“Hey, kid?” Sokka says lightly. “Shut up.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ignore you in your time of need for comfort,” the kid says.

“I will pay you,” Sokka says clearly, “to shut up.” The boy smiles and takes the money just as cheerfully as he’d extorted it, miming buttoning his lips shut.

***

Azula lounges dramatically on Zuko’s bed, glaring at her perfectly manicured nails. She tries, for the thousandth time, to gouge them through Zuko’s bedding. She focuses as hard as she can on the thought, imagining what it’s like to _touch,_ the warn silk beneath her fingers, the tension and snap as each fiber breaks. 

Nothing happens, of course.

She’s gonna miss the kid. It had been nice to be seen for a while— and so much easier to upset Zuko. She’d even almost been able to make herself visible to his peasant. 

And she was so easy to lead around too, when that Air Nation airhead wasn’t following her around and contradicting Azula’s every idea. Targeting him, slowly planting the idea that Zuko just needed to _relax_ , that the chore wheels were part of his stress by cackling with glee every time Zuko made a new slide—

She’s still got it.

Zuko enters the cottage, eyes red and breath coming fast, steaming the air in front of him. 

“Oh, Zuzu,” Azula tuts. “Where’s your rat-dog of a boy? You look like you’re about to turn.” As if he can hear her, Zuko makes a strangled sound and snatches up the chore wheel next to the bed and smashes it against the wall. It doesn’t break entirely, Zuzu pulling the blow at the last instant, tilting so that his knuckles hit harder than the wood does. He falls to the ground in a heap, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. 

Azula claps. “8 for effort, 3 for execution, brother.”

The peasant is probably still on the boat, or maybe hovering around that fishing hole he loves so much. The child has been ready to bolt for a while. She likes to credit herself for the idea Sokka had to write a letter that would make it clear she’s _unwanted_ , but she knows that realistically it was the idiot’s own idea. Every word had been heartbreakingly sincere and sappy, all low self esteem ramblings that would read as rejection.

It will take them years to recover, if they ever do.

Zuko stands, drags one of the blankets out from under her and straight through her body. He wraps it around himself, wanders out of the cottage, stumbling.

She frowns, interest piqued. She’s finally noticing that he looks exhausted, that the deep dark bags under his eyes are more of a deep red-black than grey. Azula hops to her feet, follows him.

Zuko settles himself on the sand by the ocean, curled on his side, blanket tucked over his head. 

“You’re about to shift, aren’t you?” she asks him. Azula looks around and sees no sign of the child or the idiot. So he must have returned alone.

Abandoned. 

Azuka kneels and places a hand over his head, miming patting him. She sticks out her lip pityingly. 

“Oh, dear brother,” she sighs. “I remember exactly what this is like. It took far too long to get you here, but it’s long since been your turn to feel it.” The rejection. The agony, burning through her veins like lightning, her body fighting against her. 

The utter powerlessness.

“There, there,” Azula says, brushing her fingers through his hair. She can’t touch him, of course, and her fingers dip inside his head a bit too far. “It only gets worse. You should enjoy this bit while you can.”

Zuko’s shoulders heave in a deep sob underneath the blankets, fingers digging into the frozen sand as he starts to change. It’s never pleasant, but there’s an exceptional agony to changing against your wishes. Salt in a gaping wound that refuses to heal. 

“I wonder who you’ll see,” she muses. A dragon’s mind is different than a human’s — it processes time and memories and emotions strangely. The longer one spends in dragon form, the less human their mind becomes, even as everything they’ve ever known is tried to warp and fit into a dragon’s skull.

Azula suffered through _years_ like this. Unable to cling to or think of anything but her duty. Her entire world re-oriented around service— _her_ , desperate to serve others. Her father, her country, those she had made promises to she never intended to keep. All her ambitions, her desires, her basic needs pushed aside. The dragon mind demanded she do her duty, and she did.

And then she died.

Poor, precious, spoiled Zuko has been living out a fairytale for the last 400 years instead. He gets his own princes, and pets, and food and affection. He gets all of the softness that Azula had been denied, the coddling to keep his dragon away. 

He gets to win. Zuko _always_ gets to win. 

“How will honor taste, I wonder,” she muses. “How will it feel to know that you need to be tending your hen-cats and your cow-moose even as you want to rip them to shreds? How will it feel to know that you can’t embroider your dainty little sellables? How will it feel to know how to _fix_ it but to be unable to?” Zuko doesn’t respond. His whimpers shift to moans, shift to cries, open and unhidden, nobody to save face for alone on his island. 

“Two little dragons sitting in a tree,” she singsongs as Zuko howls into the surf, spine bowing. “K-I-L-L-I-N-G.” 

It’s a new moon tonight, or close enough. Only a sliver in the sky, reflected in the water down below. The stars illuminate the monster reflected in the ocean instead, a softer light. They glint off the red scales, the sharp hooked spikes, the long, terrible snout.

“First comes duty, then comes honor,” Azula sings. “Then come the spirits in your final hour.”

The dragon stares down at the ocean with its terrible great golden eyes, the left one clouded and sightless. And then, slowly, it turns its back to the ocean, curling up to face the island. It surveys its domain, claws dragging anxiously through the sand. Slowly, its great eyes shut.

Azula hops once, gliding through the air to perch on Zuko’s head. Her foot goes too far the first time, inside him to the knee. 

“Ew,” she mutters, pulling it up. She flops back, careful not to accidentally slide inside. She hates when that happens. Some things even a spirit doesn’t want to see. “Welcome to Ember Island, Zuzu.”

She cackles at her own joke, and beneath her Zuko dreams.


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a hand slapping his face. 

“Nooo,” Zuko whines, trying to roll away. But he can’t, because he’s being _sat on_.

“Oh, good,” the evil man he lives with says, and when Zuko cracks an eye open he’s grinning brilliantly. “You’re awake!”

“I’ll kill you,” Zuko says. “I’ll kill you, and the treaty will be broken. Fifteen years. Fifteen years we’ve lived together, and you—” 

“CHORES!” Hekka crows, and starts bouncing where he sits on Zuko’s stomach. It hurts.

“You’re obsessed,” Zuko whines.

“You’re spoiled,” Hekka says happily. “I’m just teaching you the ways of the everyman.” 

He rolls to his feet, kneeing Zuko a couple of times on the way up. He digs inside the nightstand then, and Zuko tries to cover himself back up with pillows before he can bring out— 

“CHORE WHEEL!” Hekka says. “C’mon! It’s your turn to draw them!”

“I hate you,” Zuko says, covering his head with the pillow. “I am a _prince.”_

The hen-cats have heard them talking, and they’re starting to yowl for their breakfast.

“And the subjects are getting restless,” Hekka notes. “Let’s get going before they organize a coup.”

He says it coop.

He laughs when he says it like ‘coop’ because Hekka’s brainwashed him. 

Zuko _hates_ him.

“Stop making that joke!” he says, finally sitting up. Better leverage to pelt him with pillows. “I don’t like the hen-cats! I’m never going to like the hen-cats!”

“You love the hen-cats!” Hekka says. “You even got upset when Sokka ate one of them!” 

Zuko stills. Suddenly the early morning is— the sunlight is too strong, or too weak, or the wrong color where it reflects off the beads in Hekka’s braids. He can still hear the hen-cats, but they’re too close. They— the coop isn’t this close to the cottage. 

They’re not in a cottage, they don’t _have_ a cottage. What is he thinking? 

“Who?” 

“Trouble too,” Hekka points out, grabbing the woven sack he keeps the feed in and heading through the flap of the hut. “You coming, lazybones?” 

“Hekka,” Zuko says, scrambling out of the bed. He just— he has to touch him, he has to know if this is real. If he touches him, he can keep him, he’s _sure_ of it. But the floor keeps getting wider between them, and he’s too slow. Hekka is getting older, wrinkles lining his face and hair whitening at the temples.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to die of old age before we get to the coop,” Hekka grins, steadying himself on a cane. 

“Wait!” Zuko yells. His voice seems quieter than it should be, and Hekka doesn’t give any sign that he heard him. He points at his ears with a puzzled smile. “WAIT!”

“I’m afraid I can’t hear so well anymore, young man,” Hekka says. He frowns, bushy eyebrows curving down. “Who are you? You look like someone I knew…”

“WAIT!” Zuko screams, desperately.

And then he wakes up.

The hen-cats are screaming for him. They can tell he’s here, aren’t afraid of him even when he’s clearly their predatory, monstrous as he is. 

He just breathes for a moment, watching the way his breath pushes the sand out and across the beach. 

_Figure out your priorities_ Sokka had said. Zuko hasn’t dreamt of Hekka so vividly in years, in _decades._ The loss of Hekka’s chore slips could explain it, but to be honest he’s been thinking of him a lot lately. Hekka’s been on his mind more often since Sokka came. 

Maybe it’s because they have to build something from scratch, the same way him and Hekka had. Hekka had _volunteered_ , sure, but he’d also helped draft some parts of the treaty. They’d spent hours drafting plans and charting possibilities, trying to work out the most efficient way for it to function after Hekka. 

‘After Hekka’ had been thrown around a lot. 

Zuko imagines, ‘After Sokka.’ It elicits a similar grief, his claws dragging through the sand, curling into his palms like fingers. 

He’s sick of being after people. 

He gets up and goes after the hen-cat’s food instead. There’s emergency stores outside that should last a week, but after that— 

No. There’s not going to be an after _that_ , or an after Sokka. Not yet. Not yet.

***

Bato does not look happy to see him. Katara’s under his arm, keeping him steady as he wobbles on the ice. He’s wearing a splint-- he must have broken a leg at some point after Sokka left-- but he pushes off of her, limping towards Sokka to get right in his face. 

“What are you _doing_ here?” he demands.

“He’s here for Gran-Gran,” Katara says, moving to wrap Sokka in a hug. He holds her close, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in. She already looks different. Older. 

Bato’s face doesn’t relax, if anything, becomes more tense. “Please tell me you bought Zuko a prostitute and left him at the trading depot.”

Katara pulls back and gives him a quizzical expression. 

“No,” Sokka says, not rising to the bait. “He gave me a week.” He doesn’t want to talk about Zuko. He doesn’t want to talk about leaving Zuko behind, alone and hurt, without the time to process Trouble’s loss. _Sokka_ hasn’t processed Trouble, yet. 

Bato buries his face in his hands. “La and Yue save us from martyrs.” He drags his hands down his face then, comes back up less tense but even more irritated.

“He said he’d be fine,” Sokka snaps, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Uncle Bato. It’s been a lot of days on the water.” 

“It must have been, if you believed that,” Bato grumbles. Then he sighs. “Nothing for it now. YOU!”

Mikko freezes guiltily. He’s only ten, but he’s the oldest kid in the village right now. And he was about to sneak off so he didn’t have to do any unloading.

“Take the supplies down to Chief Sokka’s hut,” Bato tells him, and Mikko cows and eyes Sokka warily. Come to think of it, nobody’s come to greet him aside from Katara and Bato. 

He understands. They’ve already grieved him, and he’s something of an unknown now. Bato yelling about why hadn’t he hired a prostitute to replace himself… probably wouldn’t help. He tells himself he’s _glad_ that no one came out to greet him. He’s _relieved._

“Where is she?” Sokka asks Katara, clutching the satchel with the medicines that Zuko had pointed out for him. 

“She’s been staying at mine,” Katara says. She grabs him by the hand, and Bato grabs him by the elbow, and they all head off across the ice. She leans over and up, voice quiet. “So… you can be replaced by a prostitute?”

Sokka grimaces. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh of _course_ not,” Bato simpers mockingly. His eyes are gleaming with amusement. “Of course it’s not like _that._ ”

For some reason Sokka can’t take the mocking tone. The tribe knows about his preferences, even if they don’t talk about it, and he’s not about to let some old asshole make assumptions about his honor. 

“Oh, you’d know,” Sokka says meanly. “Zuko told me _all about_ how you only ever wanted my dad. Couldn’t _settle_ for—” 

He stops himself, realizing with embarrassing clarity that he’s about to start a fight with his elder over baggage he currently has with Zuko. It’s not Bato’s fault that they’re fighting, or that Sokka’s so keyed up that he can’t take a joke. But it’s too late. 

Katara stomps on his foot. He deserves that, and the ice heel she bent to make sure it hurts. 

“Hmm,” Bato says meaningfully. The silence drags. Sokka’s not going to apologize now, though. “Trouble in paradise, Sokka? Your sister told me about how much you hate _reading_ and _women’s work._ ”

Sokka fervently wishes that he has Zuko’s predilection for lighting things on fire when he’s upset. 

“It was a learning curve,” he admits through gritted teeth. Bato laughs, and smacks him on the back. 

“You’re telling me. My first week there he had me mucking--” 

“The _cow-moose,_ ” Sokka groans. “Did you eat a hen-cat, too?”

“What?!” Bato says. “What kind of monster eats a man’s pets?!”

“I didn’t know!” Sokka yells, and Katara wrinkles her nose at Bato. 

“He keeps food as pets? Must be off his rocker,” she says. 

“That’s what I said!” Sokka yells some more, glad to have _someone_ talk sense, finally. They’re approaching Katara’s hut, smoke twisting lazily from the chimney. 

“Royalty,” Bato agrees, shrugging. “It’s the inbreeding and the toxic fancy fabric dyes, I think. Can’t be helped. But still— would _you_ eat a dragon’s hen-cat without permission?”

“I ain’t scared a nothin’,” Sokka says, instinctively, meaning to tease Trouble. Then, his face falls, reality slamming against his ribs. He’s home, but he suddenly feels _homesick._

“Wow,” Katara says in the awkward pause elicited by Sokka blinking back tears. “Do you need me to go back with you? Beat him up?”

“Show us on the snowman where he hurt you,” Bato says, pointing at a droopy mess a few feet away. Unlike Katara, he actually _is_ joking. 

“Shut up,” he huffs, rubbing Katara’s hood into her hair so that it gets all staticy the way that she hates. 

“Stop that!” she squawks, and then stomps through the door. Being a part of the Chief’s family means she inherited their family home, one of the few house-huts to have more than one room and a door made of imported lumber. Most of the huts are built of animal leather, ice and snow. 

Sokka doesn’t immediately follow her, instead taking a steadying breath. 

“Hey,” Bato says, and squeezes his shoulder. Sokka glares at him, not wanting any more teasing. But Bato’s face is open and serious. “It’s not an easy job. None of it.” He nods at the Chieftain’s necklace. “You’re doing your best.”

“Oh,” Sokka says dumbly, blinking. He’s reminded so suddenly of _dad_ that he hugs him, one armed but tight. “Thank you.” 

“I’m dying of _old age_ in here!” Gran-Gran’s ragged voice calls. 

“You’ve been dying of old age for the last fifty years, you old coot!” Sokka hollers at her, grinning. Gods, he’s missed her. “When are the spirits finally gonna put us out of our miser and take you already?” 

He takes a deep breath, Bato squeezes his arm, and then they step through the door.

***

It’s hard to stay awake. Or— he is awake. He knows he’s awake. He’s just also… dreaming.

“MY NAME WILL NO LONGER BE TANNO!” Tanno yells. He’s shredding his shirt. “MY NAME IS NOW JIMA. IN ACCEPTANCE OF MY NEW LIFE, AND MY DEDICATION TO YOU!”

The Zuko standing in front of Zuko is cringing backwards. This had happened on the second day, if he’s remembering correctly. Which he is. Every excruciating second is burned into his mind so clearly that it’s somehow infected his eyes and ears as well.

“You don’t have to… do that…” the other Zuko mumbles. He’s staring at Jima’s pecs, and starting to take off his pants.

That’s not how it happened, but it’s true enough to how Zuko _felt_ , he supposes.

He blinks, and Jima’s older, gray and pot-bellied and grinning. He’s clutching Zuko’s arm where Zuko’s holding him in his lap. There’s blood on his lips. 

“I told ya, the cough is _nothin’,_ ” he says. “Not for a tough guy like me. I’ve got another year.”

“I don’t think you do,” Zuko says, voice cracking. He’s crying. That really did happen.

“It’s my duty, Zuko. It’s my choice to make. Not yours.” 

“But—” Zuko says, shoulders hunched and shaking.

It’s Sokka, now, bloodied and young, clutching him and smiling warmly. “It’s my duty.” 

“NO,” Zuko bellows, and fire follows it. It doesn’t wash the hallucination away, just changes it.

“Yes,” Azula says. Her scales are darker, blood on tile in contrast to Zuko’s ruby brightness. It’s fitting. So is the way her tongue darts out, black as night, teeth painted with Sokka’s blood. “Have you found your honor yet?”

“I let him go,” Zuko sobs. It come out garbled, painful through his dragon mouth. They’re not meant to speak, like this. They’re not meant to _be,_ like this _._

“Stupid Zuzu,” Azula says, false pity. She has no trouble speaking, even as a dragon. And then she’s six years old, in her formal robes, hair that had taken two hours to pin into place. Zuko remembers how she bit three maids in the process. “Unlucky in life, unlucky in love.”

A giggle echoes through the halls of the palace, followed by a groan of annoyance. Azula ignores it, but Zuko tilts his head. _Ty Lee? Mai?_ If he’s in his head, then why—

“NO,” she roars, blue flame, and Zuko rears back because it’s _hot._ It _burns._

“Do not test our mercy,” a voice says, and then Azula is gone, and Zuko is…

Sitting in the palace, even as he feels the sand underneath the claws. Hearing the echo of footsteps on tile, even as he hears the steady roar of the ocean.

Another giggle, this one more mischievous than playful. It changes, and warps, and his scales go up in defense as he whips his snout around, trying to find the source. 

“Zuko!” singsongs a child’s voice, and-- _there._ He roars, fire red and orange, and the girl cries out and flees. 

_Good. Run away, Azula!_ he thinks, hunkering down and waiting, echoes taunting him. 

“I love you,” Hekka says, leaning against the side of his snout. Zuko goes cross eyed trying to look at him. “But you’re a giant fuck up sometimes, sparky.”

When he grins it’s toothy, his face transforming, lengthening, and Zuko screams. 

***

Three days travel, four days with the tribe, and Sokka’s already late. Zuko had said seven days; enough time to drop off supplies and give Gran her last wish, and return to the sea to travel back to the island. 

Sokka’s going to be a minimum of ten days late. If he leaves today. Which— 

“She’s doing much better,” Katara says in an undertone. She keeps shooting him these little glances, but she doesn’t ask the question. She doesn’t ask when he’s leaving. 

“That’s good,” Sokka says. He means it; he’d been prepared for a funeral, and Gran’s recovery has been no less than miraculous. Even if Sokka doesn’t get to spend her final years with her, Katara deserves it. 

“About that. Why aren’t you moving forward with the relocation? Gran’s healthy enough to travel, and surely the Northern Tribe has medicines better than what I could bring you.” 

“They,” Katara’s jaw clenches, a muscle in her cheek jumping. “First they wanted to deal with a _man_ of the tribe, if not the Chief. And when Bato fell, they said he was too infirm to be making serious decisions, that he needs to heal first. Master Pakku and the other negotiators left two weeks ago.”

“But you’re here,” Sokka says stupidly. Katara gives him a stink face.

“And I’m a _woman,”_ she says, like she’s quoting someone. Someone she doesn’t like.

“You could stay,” Gran says from where she’s leaning against a cane, pushing aside the flap that separates the bedroom from the main room. Katara rushes to help her and gets swatted at for it. She crosses her arms and huffs, but doesn’t try and touch Gran again. “Pakku won’t take it well if my granddaughter beats him in a duel again.” 

“You--” Sokka splutters, and Katara looks down her nose at him, daring him to be offensive. Instead he grins. “Good on you! He sounds like a _penguin-cock.”_

“He was flirting with Gran-Gran,” Katara says, and makes a face of total revulsion.

Sokka cackles. Gran doesn’t so much as smile, staring Sokka down. 

“They’re coming back in three weeks. If Bato isn’t healed then they will assume leadership of the tribe, without a Chief to protect it.” 

“What?!” Sokka asks, infuriated and indignant. 

“We need you _here_ ,” Gran insists. She holds up her hand when he starts to protest, half formed denials taking shape. “Not forever. Just to negotiate. The _beast_ owes us that much, does it not?”

Sokka frowns, crossing his arms. He can’t— exactly argue that Zuko wouldn’t want him to help. If he knew, of course he would want to help however he could. But they don’t need _Sokka_. They need a Chief. They need someone who can do his duty to the Tribe, put them first. 

He thought he was putting them first, swearing to put… Zuko first.

“It’s complicated,” Sokka admits, and Gran shuffles forward and takes his hands in hers. They’re withered and cold, leathery. They’re not even particularly strong anymore. 

“Grandson,” she says soberly. “I trust you to make the right choice. The tribe raised you to be just and to respect your duty. I know that you won’t turn your back on your family.” 

“Ahhh,” Sokka says, edging awkwardly away. “‘Course not. I’m going to— hunting!”

That’s the thing. He’s coming to realize that he has more than one. 

He turns his back as he leaves. No one else seems to realize the irony, Gran’s ice blue gaze steady and piercing as she watches him go.

***

Keeping track of the days is impossible, but Zuko thinks— something went wrong. He has to spear fish on his claws now and roast them in order to feed the cow-moose and the hen-cats, the emergency supplies run down. The smell from the pens is horrible, and he dreads getting close to them. At least it overpowers the hallucinations most of the time.

Azula continues to torment him, taking the form he knows most fondly, young and cheerful and full of hope, even if it was tinged in cruelty. 

“GO AWAY!” he screams, drowning her words in fire, keeping her at bay with sheer force of will. 

“Play nice,” Hekka says. He’s balanced on top of Zuko’s skull, kicking him in between the eyes with every beat of Zuko’s heart. Zuko didn’t know dragons could _have_ headaches. 

“No,” Zuko says, tail thrashing. He is so, so tired of playing nice. He shakes his head and Hekka falls off, wisping away before he hits the sand. 

He doesn’t appear again. This time it’s Sokka. 

“Beating up a little girl?” he asks. He shakes his head. “You need to get your priorities straight, Zuko.”

*** 

Sokka kneels in the Spirits Cave, with its deep cool pools of water and shining crystals. There’s no skylight, but he can see the reflection of the night stars and moon on the water nonetheless.

“Yue,” he prays. “Yue, please. I don’t know what to do.”

He prays until his feet go numb, until the sun rises and replaces the moon in the pool, until he has no choice but to go. 

She doesn’t answer.

*** 

Zuko _hates_ him. He hates him and him and him and him and him and him and him, and he hates himself worst of all.

He barely has any energy left to hate Azula. At least he can’t remember what it was like to love her.

***

They’re sitting around the fire, just him, Katara, Gran-Gran and Bato. It’s nice, familiar, smoke and meat and laughter. Gran’s propped up in a modified sled to help her sit, and Katara’s started doing her hair the way that mom used to. He and Bato have been sharing dramatic Zuko stories, cutting each other off and laughing as Katara looks on in awe and confusion, becoming more and more extreme with every anecdote. 

“You’re pulling my leg,” Katara accuses them, pointing a bone at them. “This is all some stupid prank!”

“It’s not!” Sokka laughs, Bato’s own amusement leaving him folded in an attempt to catch his breath.

The screaming starts as Bato’s shaking his hand to get Katara’s attention, clearing meaning to add to Zuko’s descriptions. He’s at Gran’s side in a moment, hatchet in hand, and Sokka and Katara bolt out of the hut with food still in their mouths.

“There’s a dragon!” Minara yells at them, a middle aged women holding her twins in each arms. “Sokka!”

Sokka scans the skies, but he doesn’t see anything. And then—

“IT’S ON YOUR HEAD!” Minara shrieks, and faints. She hits the ground with her twins still on top of her and they laugh, pointing and yelling at Sokka.

“TROUBLE,” Sokka yells, trying to grab her with his hands in his mittens. She’s scrambling around frantically, trying to bury herself in his furs.

“I see that!” Katara says, and Sokka doesn’t bother correcting her, just holds out a palm to indicate that she should stand down. She lets the water whip dissipate. 

“There’s another one?” Katara hisses at Bato. “Why is it so small!”

“Maybe that female prostitute was a bad idea after all,” Bato says, eyes wide. “Zuko said he couldn’t even—”

“She’s not Zuko’s!” Sokka snaps. Trouble is buried deep in his parka now, and doesn’t seem inclined to leave. He grips Trouble underneath the arms and yanks her out to get a good look at her face. “What are you doing here!”

She hisses at him, spitting ice, and he rolls his eyes and carries her into the hut, past Gran and into the bedroom. Katara and Bato follow at his heels, eyes wide, Katara spitting questions that Sokka ignores. 

“I ain’t scared of you,” he tells her. She just glares at him, spits another little flurry of frost. “If you left because of the letter, why did you come straight here anyways?”

She hisses again and bites him, getting leather and fur. Immediately she spits it out and launches away, rolling herself into her wings and popping out naked and angry. 

“You left him!” she spits at him. Bato sits heavily in a chair. “He needs you, and you left him!”

Sokka pushes past his guilt and points at her. “You left too!” 

“I’m _eight_!” she shrieks, grabbing his arm and biting it angrily. Again, she gets leather and fur, and she shakes her head a little like she’s trying to kill it. 

“Oh yeah! And how long have you _been_ eight?!” Sokka demands. 

“Apparently as long as you have,” Bato says. He’s staring Sokka down. “You know. Because you’re fighting with a child.”

“She’s a dragon,” Sokka snaps at the same time Trouble yells “I AM A DRAGON!” 

“Dragon child,” Bato corrects.

“How?” Katara asks, digging in her clothing crate and pulling out something from the bottom. She shakes it out and he recognizes her old clothes, saved in case she ever had a daughter. She passes them to Trouble, who sniffs them and starts pulling them on. 

“No one cares about that, Katara!” Sokka says. Usually he would have just given Trouble his own shirt, but the repeated biting made it seem like a bad idea. It still grates to watch her, to know for certain that he was right. She would have been better at this than him. 

Trouble wipes hair out of her face angrily and bares her fangs at him. “He’s dying, you fucking asswad!” 

“He’s a dragon,” Sokka says weakly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Bato coughs, loudly. “I.. can’t say for sure.. but I think that _she_ is _also_ a dragon, and would know better than you.”

She pulls her sleeve up and shows him a discolored spot. It takes only a moment for Sokka to recognize the burn, and he drops to his knees and pulls it closer, worried.

“Trouble! This needs to be treated, how did--”

“Zuko burned me,” she says, and the fury has dissipated, replaced with exhausted fear. Katara’s already moving to the other room for her waterskin and the medical kit. 

“He thinks I’m Azula.”

“Oh, Trouble,” Sokka sighs, and her lip wobbles. She’s blinking rapidly and rushes into his arms, clutching him with her considerable dragon strength. Her claws tear his clothes.

“I tried to help,” she wails, shaking. “But he didn’t know me!”

Zuko would never, under any circumstances, hurt Trouble. Sokka knows this like he knows that water freezes, like he knows the moon is beautiful. Like he knows his duty.

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her, petting her back, nose against the top of her head. “I shouldn’t have left. This is my fault.” She wails louder.

“NO! DUH!” she forces out between sobs.

Katara pulls her away with gentle hands, water glowing, and starts to work on the burn while smiling gently at Trouble. “So you know my brother, huh? Must know him pretty well, to know he’s an idiot already.”

“He’s SO DUMB,” she cries, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. 

“Where’s Aang?” Sokka asks her, and she tenses.

“He’s trying to help Zuko, trying to keep Azula away while he’s like this. I came by myself.” 

“That’s so brave,” Katara says, the right thing to say. 

“She can affect him?” Sokka asks, which is the wrong thing. 

“She’s not ALLOWED!” Trouble yells. “I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Sokka,” Katara says calmly, the way she does when she’s warning him that she’s about to kick his ass. Her hair has fallen in front of her face but he keeps her hands on Trouble, not a single pause as she heals. “Perhaps you should get your friend here something to eat. I’m sure flying all the way here was tough.” 

“Yeah,” Sokka says, loath to leave Trouble but understanding that he’s only making things worse. 

“I’ll help!” Bato says, and springs out of his chair as much as any old man with a broken leg can spring… anywhere.

Bato gestures to Sokka, for him to come closer so they can talk while Katara calms Trouble down. He winces apologetically, shuffles over to stand by the other warrior. The one who was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and let the woman work.

He’s not sure if Zuko would be proud or irritated that he’d just thought that.

“You have to go back,” he tells Sokka in a low voice.

“But the Tribe—” Sokka says. He’s already gathering his things together, working while he talks. 

“Then,” Bato says, and he sighs. “Then I have to go back. Someone has to, Sokka.”

Jealousy wracks through Sokka so violently that he has to take a moment, breathing carefully. Sending Bato is wrong. It’s _wrong_ , and he’s physically repulsed by the concept, clutching his waterskin hard enough that some spills. 

“No?” Bato asks.

“No,” Sokka says, much more calmly than he feels. He shakes his head, and the the anxiety fades. He feels stronger, more confident now that he’s decided. “No, I have to go back. It’s not just because it’s my duty--”

“You care,” Bato nods. “So do I. I can go until you work out this treaty, at least.” 

“It’ll _never_ be worked out,” Sokka says. “They want a Chief— no, they want an _excuse._ If they wanted to honor our alliance, they wouldn’t keep coming up with reasons they can’t.”

Sokka shakes his head again, brows furrowed. “No. I can’t stay here, knowing that he’s hurting. Knowing that it’s my fault, _again,_ it’s always my fault. He’s always trying to protect me, and the tribe, and all I do is _hurt him.”_

“Hmm. Well, Katara _has_ offered, if you feel like all you do is hurt him,” Bato says. Sokka turns to him, already snarling, but he’s just...staring at Sokka. Laughing at him silently, eyes crinkled up. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Sokka says, but there’s no bite to it. Bato smiles and passes him a letter, addressed to Zuko. 

Sokka takes the letter, and stares at it, hand shaking with the enormity of the decision he’s making. He touches the Chieftain’s necklace. He’s worn it nearly every moment of his life in the past decade or so. It’s the only thing that he has from his dad that’s meant just for him.

He reaches back and undoes the catch. He feels heavier without it, naked and desperately without purpose. 

But he has a purpose. He has Zuko. He’s _chosen_ Zuko.

Sokka takes a deep breath, and another. He presses the necklace into Bato’s hand. 

“Dad would have wanted you to have it,” he says. Bato’s expression trembles for a moment before smoothing out, resignation. 

“No,” he says, but his fingers close over it. “I don’t think you’re right.”

Sokka goes to get Trouble while Bato packs them supplies, moving aside the curtain to see her curled up in Katara’s lap, sleeping. Katara’s petting her hair gently, smiling down at her, and her smile grows when she sees Sokka. 

“She’s really cute. Tuckered out, after all the flying she did to get here.” She seems aware of the magic in the words she’s saying, cheeks pink, words tinged with awe as she says them. “How did you find her?” 

“She found us,” Sokka says, the words catching in his throat. It hurts, seeing her here. It’s what he wanted. It’s what Trouble deserves. “She’s an orphan. I was actually,” and he wipes at his face, catching his breath as he works to maintain his composure. 

“Was gonna send you a letter asking you to take her in, believe it or not.” His hand is still cupping his mouth, hiding his expression as he watches Katara for any signs of rejection. 

She accepts it instantly, of course, nodding to herself, hand gentle in Trouble’s hair. “That makes sense. We’re a community here. It’s more stability, and we’re at least somewhat familiar with dragons and keeping their secrets.” 

Sokka’s hands clench in his mittens and he nods, agreeing with her.

“Did you ask her?” Katara asks. Her gaze is sharp even while her smile is mild, and Sokka narrows his eyes. 

“She’s _eight._ And we were such bad--” he almost says parents, chokes on the word, “--people that she _ran away._ ” 

“Hm,” Katara says, shaking Trouble’s shoulders. Trouble whines and buries her face more firmly in Katara’s lap. She shakes her again, and Trouble sits up and glares at her through her tangles of hair.

“Sounds like she ran away when she found the letter. What with you saying that, and all.”

“I did,” Trouble grumbles, “‘Cause I was mad at you. I’m less mad now. I wanna sleep now.” 

She drops back into Katara’s lap face first and Katara shakes her again.

“WHAT,” Trouble yells. It’s muffled by Katara’s skirt. 

“Would you like to stay with me? Sweetie, Sokka’s leaving soon. He needs to know if you’re coming with or not,” Katara says.

Trouble shoots up, eyes wide and frightened, only settling when she sees Sokka standing in the doorway. Then her brows draw down and she growls, baring her teeth. 

“STOP. TRYING. TO. GET. RID OF ME!” she yells, launching herself at him. “I’M GONNA GET RID OF _YOU._ ”

“AHHH,” Sokka yells, falling dramatically to the ground. He’s laughing, relieved, and she’s chewing angrily in his shirt like the monster she is. 

“Yeah,” Katara says dryly. “She hates you.”

“I— _ppphhf— DO_ ,” Trouble agrees, through a mouthful of shirt. Then she spits it out, rolls herself into a dragon, wiggles out of Katara’s old dress and crawls into Sokka’s hood. 

Trouble spits one last puff of angry ice at him before covering her eyes with her tail and settling down for her nap. 

“So who’s telling Kanna?” Bato asks as he limps into the room. He has a bundle of food in his hands. 

“Seems like we have a volunteer!” Sokka says, and points at him. “Thanks for your sacrifice, Bato, the Tribe and me really appreciate everything you’ve done for us, okay bye love you guys!”

***

“Have something for you,” Bato says to Katara as they watch Sokka’s ship shrink against the horizon. 

“The Healer of the Southern Water Tribe is not accepting noogies at this time,” Katara says, darting a suspicious glance at him.

“Is she accepting job offers?” Bato asks, and pulls the Chief’s necklace out of his pocket, dangles it in front of her. Her eyes fill with emotion as she glances between it and the ship.

“But that’s--”

“The Chief’s. And you’re a child of the Chief, aren’t you?” Bato asks. Katara reaches for the necklace, half disbelieving still. Bato moves it out of her reach quickly. “But!”

“But?” she asks incredulously.

“I just realized you already have a necklace,” Bato says, and then wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Bato,” she sighs, and reaches up to unclasp her mother’s necklace. “If you wanted it—”

“I am doing you a great service,” he says. “Clearly. Think of all the room in your jewelry chest you’ll save!”

“Mom would have wanted you to have it,” Katara says, and presses it into his palm. 

“I don’t think you’re right,” Bato says to Hakoda’s second child, but he takes it anyway, gratefully. “But I will allow you to grant an old man one of his last precious wishes.” 

“Shuddup and help me clasp this,” Katara says, rolling her eyes. She turns her back to him, sweeps her hair out of the way with one hand. 

“Shudding up,” Bato says.

He can’t wait to see Pakku’s face.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic typical Trouble vs raw bird in this chapter. - ang3lba3

Yue bends over the pitcher of water. The water inside is brackish, cold, too dark to see her own reflection in. She bends farther, shoves her entire face into it.

Her head breaks through the waves, watching the Jasmine Dragon as it sails towards Dragonpyre. She doesn’t speak, not wanting to draw Sokka or Trouble’s attention.

 _Come on,_ she thinks furiously, _you’re so close, come on._

The ocean draws her back down, spits her out. There’s a knocking at her door, insistent.

“Go away!” she yells, throws the pitcher at it. It shatters, water splattering over the rugs.

“I brought tea,” her visitor says, calmly.

Yue groans, slumps forward to rest her head in her arms. 

“...come in,” she says, reluctantly. The sky outside of her window is black, black, no moon to brighten the way for human or spirit. All the stars live in her garden, the only support they can give her.

The door opens, and there’s the sound of heavy footsteps, the rattle of a tea tray. 

“I had assumed that the manipulative ways of man would be abandoned when I joined your world,” he admits to her kindly. “And yet here we are; captives to someone else’s desires, whether we wish to be or not.” 

Yue props her head up on a closed fist, smiles wryly. “Too many of us started as human to ever truly leave those ways behind. You know that.”

Iroh tips his head in respect before handing her a cup. “Jasmine. My grandson’s favorite.” 

“Thank you,” Yue says, taking it gratefully. 

“Even so, I have found that meddling in the affairs of others, even those we love, can create a greater disturbance within the universe than if we were to allow them the freedom of their own choices.” 

“I’ve spent long enough not meddling,” Yue says. Her jaw tightens stubbornly. _“You_ don’t meddle, and look where he is now.”

“Because you meddled,” Iroh says, eyes twinkling with amusement. Yue shakes her cup at him threateningly. 

“They must let me out soon or the tides will cease,” she says. “La may be in agreement with the others, but she still needs me.” 

“Yes,” Iroh says, and sips his tea genially. “You are too important to keep caged with an old man like me forever.” Until that moment, Yue’s been expressive and lively, betraying a whimsicalness she was never allowed to express while alive. 

At Iroh’s comment, her face slackens and her eyelids drop to half mast, staring him down. There’s a glow to them, her hair shining in the lightless evening, floating around her ethereally. “I think you are confused about who is the more important spirit in the room,” she tells him. “They cannot keep you forever.” 

Iroh just sips his tea. 

He’s heard it before.

***

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Trouble says, hanging upside down from the mast the same way that Zuko does when he’s fixing the rope. She’s doing it for fun, naked as the day she was born (presumably), a pigeon-mouse dangling from her hand. Her hair whips in the wind as she takes a bite out of it. 

“Sure,” Sokka says amiably. 

Trouble swings side to side irritably, glaring at him. 

“Did I ever tell you the story about—” 

“Aren’t you even going to _ask?”_ Trouble interrupts. 

Sokka shields his eyes with his hand against the sun, squinting at her. “That’s gross. You want me to cook that for you?” 

Trouble rips another bite out. Feathers stick to the blood smeared around her lips. 

“Why’d you run?” Sokka asks, sighing. It’s going to be a long boat-ride if she wants to make this hen-cat and pigeon-mouse. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Trouble says smugly. She crunches some small wing bones between her molars, mouth open as she chews. Sokka has to look away, nauseous. 

“Kay. Well, I’ll be...over here… if you want to talk…” he trails off lamely, marching stiffly to one of the chairs bolted to the deck and sitting down. He doesn’t look at her. A feather drifts into the water, and for a moment he thinks he sees hair, pale as the moon. 

It’s just the feather, though. It floats on the water, soon joined by others, a flurry of animalistic violence. 

There’s the thud of Trouble hitting the deck, and he braces his shoulders reflexively. She doesn’t jump on them though, just… stands there. Sokka glances back at her.

She’s glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. He offers her his waterskin, which she snatches and drinks from. Ugh. That’s gonna need to be thoroughly washed now. 

“I don’t know what you want from me here, kid,” he admits. 

“I don’t want nuthin.”

“Kay,” Sokka says. “Then I’m just gonna talk at you.” 

“I don’t want _that,”_ Trouble says with disgust, but she flops down on the deck, spreads out in the early spring sunlight. Sokka tosses her clothes at her, and they land on her face. 

“Don’t run around naked all of the time. It’s rude,” he tells her. She makes a face but pulls the clothes on; she’s been raised in enough of civilization to know that, at least. 

They sit in what seems to be a peaceful silence for a while, Trouble sunbathing, the ship rocking them gently in La’s waves. 

He feels calm in a way he hasn’t in months. Even before she ran away, there’d been that constant press of anxiety. The feeling that he’d stolen something, that he had something that wasn’t _his._ That he was fucking it up. 

He’s still fucking it up. For _sure._ But it’s also impossible to fight her _and_ Katara _and_ Zuko on his right to fuck it up.

“I’m a dragon,” Trouble says quietly. 

Sokka waits. Nothing else is forthcoming. “Yuh-huh?” he tries.

“I do what I want. Cause I’m a dragon.” 

“True,” Sokka agrees, sensing something more. 

“And I _take_ what I want. Cause I’m a _dragon.”_ She rolls over on her belly to glare at him, propping her chin on her fists. Her eyes glint gold against the weak spring sun, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to shift. She doesn’t, staring at him as if willing him to understand her. 

He thinks he understands. But suddenly _he’s_ the one who doesn’t want to talk about it. And he definitely doesn’t want to be bitten if he’s wrong. So he takes the safe route.

“Look, Trouble, if this is about the waterskin, I actually do need that back—” 

“IF YOU DON’T WANT ME,” she yells, but it’s not anger. It’s not fire and fury. Her eyes, metallic and unnatural, well up with tears, and when she opens her mouth to yell he can see blood on her fangs where she’d been biting her lip. 

Or maybe it’s just the blood from the pigeon-mouse.

Sokka leaves the deck chair, kneels at the base of it so he’s closer to her. “Hey, hey. I’m—” he swallows. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t want you. I do. We both do.”

She shoves at him, sitting up and scooting away. “IF YOU DON’T WANT ME I DON’T CARE. I AM A _DRAGON_ AND I TAKE WHAT I WANT AND I WANT THE ISLAND.” She’s sobbing now, little chin quivering, wiping furiously at her eyes. 

Sokka desperately thinks of how to fix this. “But— I’m not a dragon, right? So I don’t just take what I want. Zuko’s a dragon, and he was furious with me for letting you go.” 

Trouble blinks up at him, disbelieving but hopeful. Sokka marvels at a child’s innate ability to hope, grasps for it now.

“And my sister isn’t a dragon either, and you remember— she wanted you too, but she didn’t just take you. She let you choose.”

“Zuko was mad at you?” Trouble asks quietly. 

Sokka makes a face. “Mad is not a strong enough word. And,” he dips his head to catch her eyes, not willing to touch her without permission but needing to know she’s listening. “You wanna know something else? Something big?” 

She narrows his eyes at him, offended at him-- either for the words he’s using or the placating lilt to his voice. He coughs, tries to settle it back into a less condescending register. She nods for him to continue. 

“I was really mad at me too.” It hurts to admit it, especially out loud. “I wanted to be selfish and keep you. But I thought we were making you unhappy.” 

“If I was _unhappy,_ ” Trouble says in severe tones of disgust. “I would _eat you.”_

That startles a laugh out of him, loud beside the gentle rush of waves against the ship. Trouble grins, always pleased when she successfully gets a reaction out of him or Zuko, and sits up a little straighter, wiping the remains of the tears off of her face. It’s red and blotchy, the same as Zuko’s gets, and she sniffs. 

“Hug,” she says in a demanding voice. Sokka complies gratefully, only a little disgusted when she immediately blows her nose on his shoulder. Her arms are a vice around his neck, and he rubs her back gently, muscle memory from when he and Katara were much younger. 

“We good?” he asks.

“I’m gonna punish you about this for a long time,” she decides. Sokka laughs again.

“Join the club. Zuko’s the king of it right now but I bet you could dethrone him,” he says, rubs his face in her hair. It’s amazingly silky for something he’s seen brushed all of twice.

She must not have anything funny to say to that, because she grumbles and folds her legs to sit in his lap, making no effort to loosen the noose her arms are making around his neck. 

The sun hangs high in the cloudless sky, and the wind is brisk, and the ship heads home.

***

“I want you to stay on the ship,” Sokka tells Trouble, already knowing it’s a lost cause. Still, he has to try. 

“Sucks to be you,” Trouble says. She cracks her neck, stretches out her arms. “I wanna go on the island. And I’m a dragon.”

He turns to look at her, and without moonlight to help his vision the glint of her eyes is all the more eerie. 

Then she starts to glow blue, and he jumps.

“HEY GUYS!” Aang yells directly into Sokka’s ear.

“Aang!” Trouble cheers, throwing herself into his arms. He spins her and launches her into the water.

“Trouble!” Sokka calls. Trouble bobs to the surface, waterlogged and grinning.

Aang’s laughing, doubled over, and then he stills. His back is rigid as he straightens and he sighs, rolling his head to look at Sokka. 

“Zuko’s not doing well,” he tells him. 

“I heard,” Sokka says, heart in his throat. 

Aang shakes his head, sharp and simple. Trouble drags herself back on deck and shakes like a dog. “He killed the livestock, Sokka.”

“No!” Trouble cries. “Not the birdies!” Sokka gives her a look. 

“What?” she asks defensively. “He’s worn off on me, it can happen!” 

“He gave her a whole speech about civic responsibility to the lower classes,” Aang says. 

“So a power trip,” Sokka confirms, thinking about how devastated Zuko is going to be once he’s human again. What sort of mental state he was in to kill them in the first place. Was it for food? Or something worse? 

“Yep,” Aang says, and when he pops his ‘p’ he shoots up into the air half a foot. “I can blow the fire away from you, if you get close. But he _is_ going to be shooting fire at you.”

“What about the lady?” Trouble asks. Ever since Zuko got upset at her she tries not to call Azula by her name, Sokka’s noticed. Another thing to look into. 

“They have her on a tighter leash now,” Aang says. “She won’t be a problem.”

That pushes a few pieces into place for him that had been bothering him, and Sokka turns to Aang. “Where’s Yue?” 

Aang grimaces. “Whoops! Look at that, a secret!” he says, and points behind Sokka. Sokka can’t quite stop the glance, and when he turns back Aang is gone.

Sokka does not like feeling as if there are forces manipulating him that he doesn’t understand. He understands Yue. To an extent, he understands the treaty and the war and his duty to his people. 

He doesn’t know who ‘they’ are. If he has to hazard a guess, he doesn’t like it. 

“He’s awake,” Trouble says, head snapping to look across the island. There’s a beat of unnatural silence, and then a roar, a bloom of fire in the dark.

“I really fucked up,” Sokka says, an ache starting in his palm and spreading to his chest. Zuko sounds like he’s in agony, and at the very least he’s out of control. A Zuko without control is his own worst nightmare. 

“Yuh-huh,” Trouble agrees. She jumps out of the water, twisting herself into her dragon form and out of the robe. It starts to float away in the tide, and Sokka has to wade in and snatch it. 

“Wait in the house,” he tells her.

She blinks slowly at him, and then glides onto his shoulder. Her claws dig into the fabric of his shirts, stopping just shy of his skin. He does his best to stare her down, but she keeps twisting her head to where he can’t meet her eyes. Finally she stretches so that her head is settled on top of his, and doesn’t move it even when he takes a step forward and she sways precariously.

 _“Trouble,_ ” he says sternly.

She starts chewing on his hair.

***

Zuko is so. Tired. 

“Zuko, you spoiled little prince, come on,” Hekka says. He’s shoving at Zuko’s paw. Zuko can’t feel it. “Fly to the Southern Water Tribe. Just _fly there,_ you don’t have much longer.” 

He’s sounding a lot more desperate and a lot less put-upon. Zuko feels like he should probably care more than he does. 

“You scaly,” Hekka says, punctuating his words with kicks. Zuko watches them hit, fascinated by the way— he can _see_ his scales move under the pressure, see the texture of Hekka’s boots. But he can’t feel them impact. “Idiotic, lump, of, dumb, MARTYR COMPLEX!”

“I’m tired,” he says, slow and painful. He lowers his head to the sand. 

“SLEEP IN THE AIR!” Hekka yells. 

“I’d be less tired if you stopped _yelling at me_ and let me _sleep,_ ” Zuko grumbles. Hekka goes silent, and Zuko’s pleased for all of a minute before he hears footsteps crunching on the sand. 

“Zuko?” Sokka says, hesitantly. Zuko huffs laboriously and opens one eyelid. Hekka is standing next to Sokka, arms crossed, braids shifting in the gentle spring breeze. Trouble is wrapped around Sokka’s shoulders, ears flat to her skull as she cringes. 

“You’ve never shown me Trouble before,” Zuko tells whoever is tormenting him. “Throwing all of my failures in my face, now? Azula, Hekka, Jima, Sokka, Trouble? When do I get to see Uncle?” 

“Okay, buddy, that’s a lot of— noises— I’m just going to come over and hug—”

“SHUT UP!” Zuko yells, fire billowing from his maw and enveloping the Sokka mirage. 

When it fades, Sokka is still there, looking scared but unhurt. 

“Not even a good hallucination,” Zuko says. He shows his fangs, a warning growl low in his throat. “I do not want to play right now.” His tail thrashes once, sand spraying. 

“Zuko, I think you should let him touch you,” Hekka says. He takes a step, and then disappears, reappears on the other side of Zuko’s face. Zuko’s eyes track him balefully. “What could it hurt?”

 _“Me,_ ” Zuko says. 

“Just gonna— haha, just gonna get _really_ close to the angry dragon—” Sokka is saying, edging across the sand.

Anger spikes unexpectedly, hot and fast, and Zuko lumbers to his feet. He blasts Sokka and Hekka again, unwilling to let anyone close enough to hurt him. 

“THIS IS MY TERRITORY,” he roars, wings opening wide enough that Sokka has to duck. Hekka has wisely disappeared. 

Trouble roars back at him, scales standing in thin ridges, which would be heartbreaking if she was _real_ and Zuko’s heart wasn’t already shattered. He beats his wings and they go flying, floating unnaturally before they can hit an outcropping of rocks. 

Stupid hallucination magic. 

He keeps beating his wings, rising into the air, the trees bowing and branches splitting as he rises into the air. 

“FUCK YOU,” he yells down at them, one last blast of fire that leaves them untouched. Even the sand beneath their feet looks unburnt.

Zuko settles at the peak of the island’s single small mountain, curling into a tight ball, tail over his nose. The sun will bake him in the morning and he will be glad for it, warmth to replace the steadying chill of his heart. 

***

“He’s on a fucking _mountain_ now,” Sokka says, and kicks at the sand furiously. “I’m going to have to _climb a mountain just to give him a hug._ ”

“No one’s burnt?” Aang asks. He’s zooming around the sand anxiously on a ball of air, shoulders tense. “Singed?”

“No, thank you for that,” Sokka says, glaring at the peak of the mountain. “Zuko would have _roasted_ us if it wasn’t for you.” 

“Roasted you, maybe,” Trouble sniffs, hacking a little to get the words past her fangs. She’s still doing better than Zuko, who is _impossible_ to understand. He sounds like a dog vomiting.

“HAHA,” Aang yells nervously. “I’ve got a good joke about that! What did the side dish say to the roast?” He’s still zooming around, and Sokka can’t keep his eyes on him without getting dizzy. 

“Aang, you’re giving me a heada—”

“PEA-SED TO MEAT YOU!” Aang shouts, halting upside down and right in front of Sokka’s face.

“I’m gonna go climb a mountain now,” Sokka says, pointing to it. 

“I’ve got a joke about mountains,” Aang says, continuing to hover directly in front of Sokka’s face. When Sokka takes a step forward, he floats a step back.

“You’re like the world’s worst balloon,” Sokka tells him. 

“Oh, I have _so_ many jokes about _balloons._ ”

***

He feels as if he’s being baked into the stone. 

It’s nice. Peaceful. 

The rage is still there, growing stronger every day, every minute, every hour. There are entire moments where it’s all he knows, drowning in its heat. 

It’s terrible. It’s too strong to be choked out by the ocean, too strong to be crushed by guilt, too strong to be extinguished.

It’s exhilarating. 

The sound of stones falling echoes, but he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. There’s nothing left on the island that can hurt him. 

Something touches his tail and his eyes shoot open. It whips away as he spins, snout nearly touching someone’s nose. A person, dark skinned and wearing blue— he knows that blue. He knows— 

“How did you do that?” he demands. Are the hallucinations getting worse? They can’t _touch_ him.

This one did.

This one holds up his hands, eyes wide, a dragon wrapped around his shoulders. A living dragon. Young, barely older than a baby, and it’s just… sitting on his shoulders. 

He must not be a dragon slayer. If he is, he is incredibly bad at it. 

“Okay there, big guy,” he says soothingly. “I can’t understand you, but we’re not here to hurt you. Okay? If you just let me hug you for a while, we’ll be able to talk.”

At the idea of letting this man _touch_ him he snorts smoke, lips pulling back threateningly. 

“Or no hugs!” he says, waving his hands in a big x over his face. “You could just very gently put your tail on me or something. You’re in charge! _Good_ dragon!”

“LEAVE,” Zuko yells, tail snapping out. It hits an outcropping of rock, knocks it over the side of the mountain. He doesn’t care if this man is real. He doesn’t _know_ him, and just the sight of him _hurts._

“Ahahaha,” the man says, skipping a step back nervously. His hands are still in the air, but they’re trembling now. “Okay. Okay. I’ll just— sit here. How ‘bout that? What if I just—”

He starts to lower himself, and Zuko snarls. The man shoots upright again immediately, but then falls to one knee as if knocked forward.

“Shit!” he gasps. His hair is whipping forward, the braids along his temples snappin the beads against his face. The dragon on his shoulders is swaying, trying to keep its balance. “Not helping, Aang!”

Aang?

***

Zuko stares at Sokka for another long moment. His great golden eyes seem dull, somehow. Sokka stares back at him, willing him to— anything. Recognize him, calm down, miraculously turn into a human, _anything._

Then he flaps his wings, and Aang has to hold Sokka and Trouble to the mountaintop as Zuko lifts off. Sokka watches him rise, turn in the direction of the beach.

“Oh no you don’t!” Aang calls, shooting the heel of his hand at him. It knocks him out of the air and he crashes to the ground, but now he’s _angry_. Sokka can see where the hard landing on his wings has abraded them, the blood the same color as his scales.

Zuko stumbles back to his feet, any recognition in his eyes gone as sparks dance around his jaw. His claws dig into the stone and dirt.

“Aang,” Sokka says, voice high. “I think we should—”

“Yeah,” Aang says, mouth thin. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

And then Sokka is _flying_ through the air, crash lands directly into some part of Zuko. He can’t see what part, can just feel scales and heat all around him.

“That’s more _like it!_ ” Aang whoops, because he’s _crazy._

“I AM GOING TO DIE,” Sokka wails, unable to lift himself off of Zuko’s scarly, murderous body with the steady stream of air blasting him. 

“Stop being such a wet blanket!” Aang calls. Sokka manages to twist his head to the side, can catch a glimpse of Aang bending. Trouble is crouched on _his_ shoulders now. 

“Being eaten alive by my angry dragon lover is what I deserve,” Sokka whimpers, feeling Zuko’s scales shift beneath him as he tries to move. Is Aang really strong enough to keep him immobilized with _air?_

“Plenty of skin to skin contact in the stomach lining!” Aang says cheerfully. And then, in a different tone, “Oh— _crap,_ no you _don’t—”_

One second Zuko is straining, and the next there’s no _air._ Sokka chokes, twists desperately until he’s inhaling the wind that presses him to Zuko. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he screams, dizzy. Zuko is swaying, thrashing, and it’s shaking Sokka’s brain around in his skull like a die in a cup.

“KNOCKING HIM OUT I GUESS,” Aang yells back. Trouble is hissing angrily, but Sokka can’t turn to see her, desperately gasping into the gusts of wind Aang’s throwing at them to keep them flattened to the earth. 

“HAS ANYONE—” Aang screeches, “EVER TOLD YOU—” Zuko tries to lunge for Trouble then, jaws snapping, “YOU’RE FULL OF HOT AIR!”

There’s a sound, a giant rush and then a stillness, an unnatural quiet. And then Zuko falls. 

Aang lets his arms drop, breathing heavily and glances up. “Oh, dung-beetles. I’m in trouble.” Then he disappears. 

Sokka slides the five feet to hit the rocky ground, tailbone first. “Ow,” he says, and then just leans against Zuko’s side for a minute. He needs to take his shirt off, needs to get as much skin on him as possible as fast as possible.

He also just needs to take a moment and rest. His breath fogs up Zuko’s scales like they’re made of glass, pushing back into his own face. There’s a thudding feeling on his back as Trouble lands on him, squishing his cheek into Zuko. 

“Wubble,” Sokka manages through the squishing. She ignores him, doing a circle on his back, claws kneading painfully before she settles down. 

“Wubble,” he tries again, shifting his shoulders a little. She clings more firmly, and he feels the pinprick of a warning claw. “Needa take muh shirt off.”

He closes his eyes and sighs at the ripping sound as Trouble bites one of his seams and pulls. His shirt falls apart, fluttering away in the breeze. 

“Fanks,” he says sarcastically. She rumbles happily and curls more firmly into her ball, snout right by Sokka’s ear, wuffing into it with every breath. It’s the worst. Her breath is somehow cold _and_ wet and occasionally _way too hot._

 _It’s the worst,_ Sokka repeats to himself as his eyes slide closed. _Hate it. Hate them. Stupid dragons._

He’s smiling as he falls asleep. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saved convo while writing:  
> Mello:WHY DOES THIS FIC HAVE SO MUCH ANIMAL GORE
> 
> Ang3lba3:I DONT KNOW WHY DID WE MAKE THEM DRAGONS IT WAS A MISTAKE MAKING TROUBLE FERAL WAS A MISTAKE
> 
> Mello: WE SUFFER OUR OWN HUBRIS 
> 
> Uh, there's some more animal gore in this chapter. Sorry! Also, more angst! I repeat that they do have a happy ending and it WILL be before the fic conclusion, but keep in mind that they've got some conflict to work out and read accordingly. 
> 
> Also, we're doing our best to respond to comments. You all are the best! I love how many of you are so good at guessing where we're going, and can't wait for everyone to lose their collective minds at some stuff we have planned. Thank you so much for interacting with us! -Mello

Zuko wakes by centimeters. 

He _hurts._

It takes a while to get his mouth working, but when he does, he regrets it. It tastes _horrible._ It tastes like rotten meat and, somehow, mint. He doesn’t think about _why_ it tastes like those things specifically. He also doesn’t think about the pounding in his head, or the way his joints feel like he’s been drawn and quartered. 

He tries to push to a sitting position, but something’s holding him down. Something warm and heavy and—

Maybe he could just go back to sleep. Forever, this time. He doesn’t _have_ to open his eyes. There’s no law that says he has to open his eyes.

He can’t do his fucking chores if he doesn’t open his fucking eyes, _fuck._

But maybe he could just… pretend he hadn’t woken up. Thirty second rule.

He’s supposed to stop thinking that way. He’d promised Kato. 

So he opens his eyes. They stick, the left one searing and in pain, and he remembers that it’s been years since the attack. He’s long healed. 

For some reason, it still startles him when he blinks and can’t see out of it, only getting darkness and a faint sense of blurriness. He blinks some more, trying to wash it away, and it stays. 

Of course it stays. It’s been like this for more than 400 years. Where’s his head at? 

Zuko wipes at it with one hand, comes away with a disturbing amount of gunk and one long dark brown hair. Some of the pain eases then, at least.

“Sleeping,” Sokka mumbles, and reaches up to slap at Zuko’s face weakly. “Stop moving.”

Sokka. He knows Sokka. 

He’s _furious with Sokka._

Zuko slaps the back of Sokka’s hand sharply, immediately regrets it when Sokka yelps and rolls away, clutching it to his chest. 

He’s blinking rapidly, rubbing at his hand and dragging himself awake. He seems to be having just as difficult a time with it as Zuko is. 

“Shit,” Zuko rasps. He flexes his hand, knowing that too much force had gone into it to pass as playful. “Sorry. Still.” He forms his hands in a raised clawed position. 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, letting his hand fall and rolling out his shoulders. He’s in his underwear and his travelling gear, presumably after giving Zuko the pants he was wearing. Since the pants Zuko is wearing are _way_ too big to be his, and they’re an ice blue. Sokka’s neck cracks loudly as he looks around. “Where’s Trouble?” 

Zuko snarls, pushes to his feet. His knees immediately crumple underneath him, legs still asleep. “Do you have _memory loss?”_

“Woah!” Sokka yelps, scrambling backwards, one hand raised as Zuko attempts to intimidate him. 

“I’m trying to get _away_ from you, not _at_ you!” Zuko snaps. 

“What? Wait, Zuko,” Sokka says, reaching for him. Zuko falls back this time, tearing away from his grip, searing anger coursing through him at the reminder of his loss, the loss that _Sokka_ caused. 

“She came back!” Sokka says desperately. He’s looking around again, covering his brow with his hand to shield from the sun. “Trouble! Where are you?” 

“Yeah,” Zuko says, trying to massage the sleep out of his legs. He _can_ throw himself off the mountain and survive if he has to. It just won’t be particularly pleasant. “I’ve heard that one before. Everything’s definitely fine and magically fixed itself, it’s just that it’s not _visible_.”

“What are you talking about?” Sokka snaps. Trouble comes shooting out of a tree, a pigeon-mouse in her jaws, and lands on Sokka’s shoulder. She tosses it at Zuko and lowers her head in submission, tail thwap-thwapping against Sokka’s shoulder blades. 

“Trouble?” Zuko asks, pigeon-mouse smacking him in the side of the mouth and falling barely noticed onto his lap. His hands close around it, squeezing nervously. 

Trouble whines, lowering her head more. She won’t meet Zuko’s eyes. Is this an apology? She’s never acted like this around them, not once, not even when she _should have._

His hands tighten around the pigeon mouse, and it makes a few ominous cracking noises as the spine snaps. 

“Do you want me to— cook it for you?” he asks, raises the pigeon-mouse.

Sokka’s looking at him strangely. He turns to Trouble and scratches her on the side of her neck gently. “I don’t think he remembers, buddy. You should probably come out and talk to him.”

Trouble pulls even further into herself, curling her tail around Sokka’s neck like a nervous necklace, ears flat against the back of her head. 

“Trouble?” Zuko asks, hesitantly. A few more bones in the pigeon-mouse crunch. He— he has the feeling— everything is so _confused,_ the past— however long a blur. He remembers— 

Trouble whines, and scurries away back into the trees. Sokka tries to grab her, barely missing her tail. He curses and watches the trees shiver as she bounds between them. 

Zuko stares at the pigeon-mouse, and decides to do the only thing he can think of to make it better.

“MMM,” he says, and takes a big bite out of a wing. It’s extremely feathery, and he coughs. “GOOD.”

Three trees over, a little red nose peeks out. When she catches Zuko watching her it disappears. Sokka looks faintly green. 

Zuko smiles widely, teeth bloody, feathers stuck to his chin, and takes another bite. “YUM. MY FAVORITE.”

“Zuko I am going to vomit,” Sokka says. “I kiss that mouth.”

“Not any fucking more,” Zuko says pleasantly, and chomps down pointedly. “How long did you stay over what we agreed.”

Now Sokka looks green for a different reason, and Zuko feels vindicated as he pulls a feather from between his teeth and flicks it in his direction. Sokka flinches. _Good._

“I…” Sokka says, and his shoulders slump. “I have no excuse.” Nothing more is forthcoming, and Zuko raises a brow, enraged. What a shitty, shitty apology. 

“I’m sure you have excuses,” Zuko says. “Because if you had no excuses, then you have no explanations, and you left me here to go _insane_ and destroy _centuries_ of home building for _no reason.”_

Sokka winces and pulls at his wolftail, his single tell for when he’s feeling Big Emotions. “There was some stuff going on with the Northern Tribe that they needed my help with, and Gran wasn’t following the timeline Katara thought she would. But I shouldn’t have stayed.” 

Zuko relents. Just a bit. Because it’s wrong to be so cruel to someone who’s recently lost a loved one, because he knows what it’s like to not be able to find the words to explain what’s been done in the midst of grief. Knows what it’s like both to lose a parent and to lose someone as-good-as. 

“I’m sorry about your grandmother. Losing someone is… hard.”

Guilt crosses Sokka’s face again. “She’s still alive. The medicine you sent was enough for her to recover, at least for now. That’s part of the reasons negotiating with the North, they.” He stops, swallowing what he was about to say. He shakes his head, at himself or at Zuko he doesn’t know. 

Zuko’s pity turns to acid. He breathes in, out, slowly. _Trouble is in the trees,_ he reminds himself. 

“I realize,” he says slowly, tensely. “That you don’t trust me enough to share what’s happening. But you also have to understand that you’ve made a promise to me, and if you can’t fulfill it, if you are going to be torn away again by duty to something else, someone else needs to take your place.”

*** 

Pain lances through Sokka at that-- at _you made a promise,_ not, _you have a commitment._ Because in a way, he made a lot of promises to Zuko. Even if he never said them out loud, he said them with his actions. With the actions he expected from Zuko, explicitly and implicitly. This is more than just a contract to both of them. 

He touches his neck, bare where the Chief’s necklace once sat heavy and comforting. He still reaches for it, will likely still reach for it for a long time.

Zuko notices. 

“Well?” he asks. He’s still holding that fucking pigeon-mouse, squeezing it. Sokka covers his eyes.

“I choose you,” he says quietly. It’s not the right time to be having this conversation, Zuko covered in animal guts, stranded on top of a mountain and both of them raring for a fight. For some _closure_ , despite there not being anything closing out. 

“For how long?” Zuko asks, bluntly. He’s got that veneer of calm in his voice, the one he uses to hide his hurt feelings and anger, that condescending tone he uses when he’s pretending things are solely about the _treaty_ and _honor_ and not _them._

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Sokka says quietly. “Trouble said you were in pain. That you were confused, and I-- I never wanted that.” He’s still covering his eyes, unable to look at the steel in Zuko’s expression, the threat that it’ll never soften after how deeply he’s hurt him with his abandonment. 

“No, you should have left,” Zuko says. “I told you to leave. I knew my limits and I trusted you with them. You should have come _back,_ Sokka.” 

Honestly, the North isn’t even an excuse. Gran-Gran didn’t tell him about it until well after he should have left, and whether or not she was going to make it out with the medicine shouldn’t have been a factor in him staying. Spiritually, he gave her the final wish she asked for by seeing her. That was more than the tribe was owed, and Zuko was willing to give it to them. 

“Can’t you— can’t you even look at me?!” Zuko asks, voice cracking. There’s a dull, fleshy thud several yards away.

“You’re covered in dead bird,” Sokka says weakly. “Can we go home? I’m tired of secrets.” He doesn’t realize that he means it until the words are there, falling from his mouth without his consent. 

“You know what, fuck you,” Zuko says. There’s the sound of shifting gravel, and when Sokka cracks two fingers apart to peek through, he’s standing and stomping towards a ledge. He spins to face Sokka, points at him. “You were covered in dead bird your first _day._ ” 

And then he steps backwards off the cliff. 

“WHAT THE--” Sokka shouts, rushing to the edge and peering over. 

“OW!” Zuko screams. He’s bouncing off ledges and down to the next one at a frightening speed, at bone cracking heights, but he looks— fine? “OW! WORTH IT! MOTHER! FUCKER!”

Trouble claws her way up his leg and onto his shoulder, watching Zuko go, flinching with Sokka every time a particularly painful crash causes him to yell. 

She fixes him with a Dragon’s approximation of an unimpressed look. 

“How could I _possibly_ know that his solution to avoiding a conversation would be throwing himself off something?” Sokka asks. Trouble hisses at him, and he hears the words he just said. “Oh, Yue, of course that was going to be his solution.”

Sokka sighs, and starts carefully picking his way down the mountain, bare legged and hissing with each scratch and cut against his unprotected skin.

The path is different, this time. Zuko’s collisions had created better hand holds. 

***

Sokka doesn’t see him on the main parts of the island, or in what’s left of the cottage, so he looks over at the ocean. There’s nowhere immediately apparent, but then— a wave, moving abnormally. He walks up to it. It settles into normality again, and ten feet to the left the ocean flickers strangely. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, following the trail. It stops at an unremarkable stretch of beach, and he sits in the sand there, waiting. 

There’s still no moon. For a moment he feels like he should be worried about it, except that the idea of worrying about anything else makes him feel like he’s drowning and he stops, clenching his fists on his legs. 

It’s fine. She’s a spirit, it’s probably some silly ‘every ten years is a week of no moon’ or something. He’s got enough on his mind right now, he’ll pray to her later. And if the stars look a bit sparser than usual— then maybe they’re just like, on a… group… vacation. 

Still, it makes it harder to see, the trek down the mountain fading from day into evening and into night, blackness all around him with nothing but the lapping of the ocean and occasional reflection of the remaining few stars to guide him. 

The ocean swells, and then spits up a fish at Sokka’s feet. It flails wildly, fins slapping sea water into the cuts on his legs. 

“I understand that the wisdom of the spirits is beyond my comprehension,” Sokka says slowly, picking it up. It thrashes between his fingers, jabbing him with a spine until he drops it with a hiss and stuffs his finger into his mouth. “What’s this, La?” He asks around the finger. 

La doesn’t answer. She never does, even if she makes her presence known through other means. 

But the ocean does spit another fish at him. This one is… glaring at him. Sassily. Somehow. As sassy as a suffocating fish can be.

He’s hungry, but these are both La’s fish, so he tosses them back into the water. 

A wave knocks him on his ass, drenches him. He barely avoids gulping sea water, and when it recedes, he’s covered in seaweed and…

Three fish.

Never let it be said he can’t take a hint.

“I am gonna eat these,” he warns the ocean. It laps placidly at the shore, so he trundles over to the beachside firepit and feels around for the flint and steel. Typically Zuko lights it with bending, and it takes him a moment to dig them out from where they’ve been buried in the sand. 

He’s not quite sure where Trouble went to, but the smell of cooking fish will bring her back soon enough. And if it doesn’t, then she’s found her own meal. 

Sokka’s man enough to admit she’s a better hunter than him.

***

Trouble’s launching herself from branch to branch noisily, but every time Zuko turns around she hides. It’s not very successful, the bright red of her scales nearly luminescent against the black and brown of shadowed trees.

He doesn’t want to go back to the cottage. He doesn’t remember what the cottage looks like, but it can’t be _good_. And he can’t drown himself in the ocean, because he’d spent thirty minutes fighting with it for his right to dunk himself underwater and stay there, and it had spent thirty minutes slamming him forcefully against the tree line and dumping him on the shore. Never let it be said he can’t take a hint.

So he’s hunting in the forest, and Trouble is hunting him, and all the prey is being scared away.

“Trouble,” Zuko sighs, leaning against a tree trunk. She ducks again, but her wings still poke out of the foliage. 

“I could use your help,” he coaxes. “You’re a better hunter than me.”

She chirps appreciatively, tail swishing. She doesn’t come down, but it’s a positive sign. 

“...wanna take down a cougar-elk?” Zuko asks. 

Trouble has never been allowed to touch the cougar-elks. Zuko has lectured her about how they’re too big for just them, and it’s wasteful. The opportunity to break a _rule_ is too much for her to resist and her head pops back out, fangs displayed in a gruesome grin. 

He feels how his mother must have, offering him chocolate in bed if he’d stop pouting over what his father said at dinner. Except he’s… probably his father in this case, too.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself. And then amends, _think about it when you have all the facts._

Something about falling back into their instincts settles both of them. Zuko’s still a little foggy after spending so much time as a dragon, but it’s worth the extra mental effort to be doing something with Trouble, who’s almost...gleeful. 

She looks up at him after they’ve downed a cougar-elk and grins, cackling in her mad little dragon way when he makes a scene about needing to carry it back to the cottage without any help. 

It’s almost like it was. 

***

Three hours and three fish later, Sokka’s dozing off in the sand. He’s trying his best to stay awake. Zuko has _never_ been under for so long. And yes, he had just seen him fall off of a mountain with no apparent death, but— what if it had damaged something? 

The cougar-elk are loud tonight too, yowls and the sound of cracking tree branches filling the night. Every once in a while he hears Trouble’s excited trills, echoing from far away. Good for her, that she can let go of her angst over Zuko to have a little fun. 

Oh, to be as flexible as a child. 

“We’re not eating it raw!” Zuko’s voice says. Sokka snaps his head around to look at him, leaving the edge of the trees with a cougar elk slung over his shoulders. He’s laughing. Trouble chitters in retort, and he sees her scrambling along the ground next to Zuko, snapping at its hooves and hopping out of the way when Zuko tries to swat at her with tiny blasts of fire.

She doesn’t seem apprehensive in the slightest. Did they talk? Sokka hopes that they talked. Seeing her afraid of Zuko was killing him. 

“You are a _young lady,_ ” Zuko lectures, but the tone is ruined by genuine amusement. Trouble wraps around his feet, almost felling him, and glares upwards. He glares down. He relents. “Okay, you’re nothing but trouble, but you’re also not going to eat like an animal tonight.”

Trouble snaps her teeth defiantly but catches sight of Sokka and rushes him, a tiny red blur that knocks him onto his back. 

“Oof!” he says, rubbing his head where it hit the sand. She kneads painfully at his chest, smug. 

When he looks up at Zuko, it’s just in time to see the last of the laughter leave his face, replaced with a flash of pain and then nothing. 

Yeah. He feels that. That exact set of emotions, actually, and he rubs at his chest again for an entirely different reason than Trouble’s claws. 

“Would you mind terribly fetching the dressing kit?” Zuko asks, extraordinarily polite for someone with blood and mud smeared down his bare chest, pants loose around his hips and ripped by the blunt force trauma of falling off a mountain.

“Of course,” Sokka says stupidly, sitting up and encouraging Trouble down with gentle pats to her rear. She grumbles but must sense the tension, hopping away and into the surf. 

Zuko watches the surface intently for a few moments, and when Trouble doesn’t resurface he snorts, sounding irritated. Then he turns back to Sokka, awkward and tense. 

“Thank you, dinner will be ready much sooner with your contributions,” Zuko says. A flash of vivid embarrassment crosses his face, and then it’s hidden as he bends forward, letting the cougar-elk slide off his shoulders and into the sand. 

“...Sure,” Sokka agrees, not mentioning the fish, even if Zuko can clearly see the lit fire and their bones in the sand. He stands and passes Zuko on the way to the cottage, skin dimpling at their proximity. 

They don’t so much as look at each other as he passes.

***

“Wonderful,” Zuko simpers under his breath, cleaning the spit. “I so look forward to our working relationship continuing forward, Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe. I’m so casual and professional and well rounded as a human being. Did you know I have a degree in socializing correctly? Outdated now, of course. Why yes, that _is_ right, it’s another thing I finished in the Fire Nation _without honors._ ”

***

The cottage is exactly as he left it, down to the blankets piled at the foot of the bed and the unwashed tea set on the table. Zuko must not have made it inside before changing. 

He pulls the dressing kit out of its compartment and grabs one of Zuko’s robes where it’s hanging on the wall. On second glance, he grabs one of Trouble’s, too, in case she decides to grace them as a human any time soon.

As he’s leaving his foot crunches on something. Zuko keeps the cottage immaculate, despite Sokka’s best efforts, and when he looks down he sees a shattered chore wheel. It still has one of the little papers that Trouble had made sticking out of it, and he follows the trail of debris to see a dent in the wall insulation. 

Sokka gathers up the pieces, cleans up the mess, and tosses the chore wheel into the burn bin. Hopefully neither Zuko nor Trouble have to address it if it’s out of sight. 

***

How long does it fucking take to find the dressing kit? It’s never _moved._

Unless something— _happened—_ to the cottage. The same way something happened to the— _other_ buildings on the island. 

Zuko buries his hands in the thick, soft fur at the nape of the cougar-elks neck, then unburies them and pets it. It’s fine. It has to be fine. He didn’t destroy the cottage, he didn’t destroy any more of his home. He doesn’t break or taint or kill everything he touches.

He looks down at what he’s touching.

“Fuck,” he says, very quietly. Then he pets the cougar-elk’s head, very gently, and closes its eyelids.

***

“I bet Trouble would like a fur dress this winter,” Sokka says as he kneels next to the carcass, handing Zuko the kit. “We’ll have enough time to properly tan it before it gets too cold again.” 

“It’s soft,” Zuko says. His voice is odd, squeezed small somehow. He takes the kit, unrolls it. Gets to work.

Sokka watches him. Normally he would touch his shoulder gently, and Zuko would stop whatever he was doing and turn his face into his shoulder. Maybe they wouldn’t talk about it, but Zuko would take comfort from him, and that would be enough. 

The idea of touching Zuko right now has preemptive rejection shivering through him. He makes two fists, his nails biting into his palms. 

Zuko yawns, jaw cracking. He freezes, and slowly unfolds one leg from under him as he resettles in a more comfortable position. Then he shoves the sole of his foot onto Sokka’s bare calf, utilitarian and abrupt.

Sokka lays his palm over Zuko’s ankle, heart breaking. 

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t offer to help, even if it would make the cleaning and prepping go faster. He’s pretty sure that the sharp, controlled movements with a knife are therapeutic for Zuko, and he shouldn’t encourage them be used on anything, or anyone, else. 

Zuko shrugs. “I shouldn’t have trusted you. You barely know me. I knew your attachment to them was greater than your attachment to me, and I encouraged you to leave anyways. It was unfair to expect more of you.” 

“That’s absurd,” Sokka says, “you can’t expect someone to only love one person in their life.”

Zuko snorts. It’s just as effective as a knife would have been. “Who said _love?_ Attachment. If I had expected you to _love me,_ I wouldn’t have just been foolish, I would have been insane.”

He knows that he deserves for Zuko to be hurt, for him to be betrayed. But he’s not sure that he deserves _this._ He sucks in a sharp breath, nails breaking the skin in his palms. 

“I do love you. I gave up the tribe for you,” he admits. He’s not sure what he’s going to do if Zuko continues to mock him, the loss of his people still raw and aching. 

Zuko’s hands still, and then continue, his jaw set. He can hear his teeth grinding from here.

Sokka doesn’t say anything else. Waits him out. Zuko’s always easy to wait out.

“That necklace,” Zuko says, finally. “Was it a sign of being Chief?”

His hand goes instinctively to his neck and he brushes his fingers along his neck, sensitive without it. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It was my dad’s. He left it to me when the fleet left to help the Earth Kingdom when I was 15.” 

Zuko sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, lets it out in a slow and measured manner.

“To clarify,” he says. “You no longer have the authority to tell me about— whatever you refused to trust me with, when you could have.”

He’s so, _so_ tired of secrets. Living with Zuko has done nothing but prove to him that their secrecy was born of ignorance and nationalism. He can _help._ He wants to _help._

“Did you,” Zuko starts. “Did you give it up so you couldn’t tell me?”

“I gave it up so that my tribe wouldn’t be conquered by the North without me, the only living warrior, there to protect it.” He says, unwilling to meet Zuko’s gaze. His breathing is coming fast, the terror at breaking the trust of his tribe in favor of trust from Zuko. 

“No,” Zuko says, and stabs the knife downwards, lets go of it. He turns to face Sokka. “No, because you could have sent someone else. If you wanted to stay Chief, you could have sent _anyone_ else. You say you love me, but you _have_ to love them more. There’s— _more_ of them, that’s just— math! So what—”

“I love you _both_ ,” Sokka grits out, hands shaking. 

“They need _you,”_ Zuko spits out. 

“ _You_ need me,” Sokka says. 

“I need a warm body,” Zuko says flatly. He pulls his foot away, tucks it back under him. 

There’s silence, the rejection not unexpected but still painful, an already open wound made deeper. 

“I don’t trust you anymore,” Zuko says, staring at the carcass. “I don’t know… how I’m going to trust you again.”

“ _I_ need _you,_ ” Sokka admits quietly. 

“Why?” Zuko asks. He picks up the knife again, gets back to work. He’s almost far enough to start spitting chunks to roast. “What do I offer you?”

Sokka shrugs helplessly, face wet. “I can’t explain it. You’re _you._ Everything that I thought I couldn’t have as Chief.” He wipes his face. “Turns out I was right the whole time.” He knows as soon as he says it that it’s the wrong thing to say, self pity so soon after what he did to Zuko. 

“About what?” Zuko asks tightly. He skewers the first hunk of meat, slides it down and then starts on the next one. “You’ve been saying a lot of things the whole time I’ve known you. Mostly that I’m insane and women are the worst.”

“You are insane, and I love that about you. I have no excuse for my bad habits, but I can say that you bring out the best in me. You should have _seen_ Katara when I started helping with supper that first night, she almost split the ice she was so confused,” he laughs wetly. Then he sobers. 

“I really wish you could have been there. I wanted you with me, even though I was afraid of how mad you were with me.” This being honest stuff is exhausting. He wonders if it would have been easier in small bits over time instead of having to unload it all at once like this. 

“Should have just fucking gone with,” Zuko agrees, skewering the last chunk. “The animals all died anyways.”

“I’m sorry,” Sokka says again, uselessly. 

“Believe it or not, I blame myself for that one,” Zuko says, and stands, balancing the spit in his hands as he hauls it over the fire. 

“Trouble said you were completely out of it, didn’t know who or what anything was,” Sokka agrees. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have let you go on as a dragon for that long.” 

Zuko less sets the spit in the rungs than drops it. He catches himself on the metal, bent half in the fire. 

“She was here?” he asks. “Alone?”

“She found me at the South Pole,” Sokka says. “She came back to the island to yell at us, and when she saw you she said you didn’t recognize her. Thought she was your sister.” Zuko’s gone even paler than normal, and he’s distracted from the sting of their conversation, worried about him. 

“What have I done?” he whispers. 

“What? I don’t understand,” Sokka says, almost reaching for him. 

Zuko turns. His hair falls in the fire, but doesn’t catch. Sokka’s— never though that through, actually, but it makes sense. Even if it’s strange, watching the long black strands fall untouched through the flames. 

“Did I hurt her?” he asks, voice louder but not stronger.

Shit. He could lie to him; Trouble doesn’t even seem to remember, and there’s not even a scar. He knows the levels of guilt that Zuko can bring onto himself, knows that nothing good will come of the truth. 

But he’s so tired of all of the lies. 

“Katara healed her,” he says. “It was small, not even any scarring.” 

“She’s a _dragon,”_ Zuko says. His eyes are distant, and the metal bar under his hand is squealing as his fingers tighten. “Her— she was groveling. She was _scared._ ”

“That wasn’t why,” Sokka says quickly, feels like their conversations at the tribe and on the ship give him enough perspective to speak on Trouble’s behalf. 

“She was worried that you would be mad at her for running away, and that you’d blame her for,” he gestures around, “all of this.”

Zuko’s eyes focus then, glinting old in the firelight as he stares at Sokka. 

“No,” he says. “No. I don’t blame _her_ for anything.”

Sokka sucks in a breath. It doesn’t help, his lungs filling with no relief, the pain so intense that he wonders if he hasn’t been stabbed after all. 

Zuko removes his hand from the spit almost delicately, sits cross legged in the sand next to Sokka. Presses the flat of the foot nearest and his knee against Sokka’s. Stares at the ocean, silently. Sokka wants nothing more than to run away, but he can’t. He’s stuck here, just like Zuko is, and he won’t subject him to being a dragon over his hurt feelings. 

“Gonna have to get the ship together for a trip soon,” Zuko remarks blandly. “After we tally the damages.”

He’s the last remaining warrior of the Southern Water Tribe. He’s a former Chief. He can handle the repercussions for his mistakes.

“I don’t know how to make this better,” he admits. “All I can do is tell you the truths. All of the truths I wasn’t allowed to tell you before,” he adds, meeting Zuko’s eyes. 

“What the _fuck_ does that even mean?” Zuko asks. “You were in _charge._ You _chose_ not to tell me.”

Sokka doesn’t flinch. “I had instructions from the Chief before my dad.”

“Your grandfather,” Zuko says. “Jima’s father.” 

Sokka nods. 

“Jima’s father was a real asshole,” Zuko says. He grabs a stick, stokes the fire.

“I couldn’t say. I never met him, though the rumor is that Gran-Gran shoved him into an ice-floe to keep him from surrendering the village during the first phase of the war. So at the very least, he was a coward.” Sokka waits, holding his breath. 

“Why would he surrender?” Zuko asks, and prods the fire again. He doesn’t need to, it’s roaring. “You have _me._ ”

“Exactly,” Sokka says. He’s also watching the fire, remembering the way the huts burned after the first invasion, a life of blue and white and gray melted away with red, red, red. 

Zuko stops shoving at the fire for a moment. It dims as he holds his breath, explodes upwards when he breathes out. “Sokka,” he says. “Who are you at war with?”

“The Fire Nation.” 

“Fuck,” Zuko says, throws the stick in the fire. “Okay, but that’s still— I’m _banished,_ my loyalty isn’t to—”

“Not— see, that’s the funny part,” Sokka says. Rubs his face. “There was a coup. We always thought that their crazy claim to a usurped immortal Dragon King was just weird grandstanding or a not so subtle way to prevent another family to ascend the throne. Remember, I didn’t know that you were human, or who you were when I came. We lost all of that information in the first raid-- apparently the scribe in charge burned them to protect you, and died before he could pass on the information.” 

Zuko is silent for a very, very long moment, watching the flames. 

“I’m going to say something you won’t like,” he warns.

Sokka tenses, worst case scenarios he’d discounted flitting through his head. Zuko has to know that if he _did_ show up it wouldn’t fix much, that they’d install him as a puppet ruler at best.

Zuko lolls his head to the side, smiles sardonically. “You need to read the pamphlet.”

Sokka bursts into surprised laughter. It’s short lived, but the brief reprieve from the anxiety of their conversation helps. He feels like he can breathe easier. 

“Also the treaty,” Zuko adds, his smile more genuine now. _“We_ need to read them both. You’re not the Chief anymore, you don’t have the authority to break with it. But we need a plan, and there might be loopholes.”

“Whatever we want to do, Bato will support,” Sokka says.

“You don’t know Bato very well, do you?” Zuko muses. He turns his head back to the fire. 

Sokka shifts a little bit closer, letting their legs press together, skin to skin. He’s still in his underwear. 

“If it means anything,” Zuko says, very quietly. “I forgive you.”

Ah, fuck. He’s crying again. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide it, folding his other knee to his chest and leans against it. 

Zuko puts a hand flat in the sand between them, palm up. He doesn’t look over, just twitches his fingers twice. Sokka laces their fingers together carefully. 

“I didn’t tell you that as some sort of ploy to get out of trouble with you,” Sokka tells him, gripping their hands tightly. “You deserved to know. You’ve deserved to know the whole time.” 

“Do you know what I say to myself? Every time I— every time someone leaves, and someone new comes.” Zuko’s thumb strokes at the side of Sokka’s hand, sweeping, calming motions. “I tell myself, _the first year is the hardest._ And it’s true, sort of. We’re both grieving. We’re both learning, and growing, and growing pains are never easy.”

Sokka’s breath hitches a few times, thinking of the tribe, the responsibility he’d abandoned. His sister, hurt and let down by a system he could have changed. A war he could have helped in, his father, lost and probably dead. 

“But the secret is, the thing that gets me through it,” Zuko says. He sniffs, rubs at his nose with the back of his other hand. His voice catches as he speaks. “The thing that gets me through it. Every time. Is that it’s _only_ the first year. And we have… so many more together. So the first year is the hardest. But the— the worst year. The worst year, is the fiftieth. And I—”

He starts crying in earnest then. “I want the fiftieth year with you. So I’m going to forgive you. And you’re going to prove me right.”

It’s impossible not to give into the desire to pull Zuko close. They can claim it was the need to touch if Zuko needs the alibi, but he drags him into his lap, muddy and sticky with blood. He tucks Zuko’s head under his chin, wraps his arms around him, and holds him tight.

“You forgive me,” he says softly, “but you don’t trust me, do you?” 

“Forty nine years, hut boy,” Zuko says, and laughs wetly. “You’ve got time to convince me.”

There’s a clatter of metal, and they both startle, turn to look at the fire. Trouble is holding half the spit, the other half in the sand. 

“It was burning,” she mumbles. Sokka opens his arm, and she takes the spit with her, sitting cold and wet on his lap while she peels the meat off with her teeth.

“Don’t let the metal touch Sokka, he’s fragile,” Zuko reminds her. Sokka sighs long sufferingly.

“How come I’m the baby yet you guys are always crying,” she asks, mouth full and peeking back at them. 

“Puberty,” Sokka says promptly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Sokka pinches me,” Zuko says at the same time, “it’s real abuse.” 

Sokka twists, glares at him, pinches him. Zuko screeches loudly.

“You see! You see what I mean!” he wails, and rips a handful of meat off the skewer, shoves it into his face. 

“Hmm, yeah,” Trouble agrees, frowning. “I think I do.”

Then she reaches over and pinches Zuko’s arm. He wails so loudly that food falls out of his mouth. She catches it in her hand, shoves it in her own mouth.

It is the most disgusting thing Sokka has seen today, and it’s got stiff competition with every _other_ bonding moment they’ve had.

“UGH,” Sokka says, looking away. 

“You are a _lady_ ,” Zuko says, laughing. 

“Hey! Who’s sexist now?” Sokka demands.

“You’re so courtly and high born and you spend thirty minutes on your hair every morning,” Zuko says. 

“You make us stop and look at the pretty clothes on shipment days and then say, _oh but I couldn’t possibly afford that, it’s too much, is it too much?_ ” Trouble adds. Her impression is eerie. And insulting.

“As Chief of this tribe,” Sokka says primly, “I hereby outlaw making fun of me, effective immediately.” 

“As Prince of this tribe,” Zuko says, “I wield my divine right, the hand of Agni which speaks through my blood and the blood of my blood, and say: give him hell, Trouble.”

“As TROUBLE MAKER and OUTLAW of this tribe,” Trouble declares. Then she shoves her hands to her face and blows a wet fart noise into her palms.

“I concur,” Zuko says, and rips another bite off the steaming hunk of meat in his hands. 

“I can tell when I’m outnumbered,” Sokka says regretfully. “If I can’t beat em—”

He rips a huge fart. 

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Zuko yells, and elbows him viciously.

Trouble screams gleefully, and sensing the trajectory of the rest of the evening, Zuko scrambles away, leaving them to their disgusting bonding moment. 

***

“Have you ever heard of a Southern Water Tribe oven?” Sokka asks Trouble, who shakes her head. Zuko doesn’t hear the punch line to the joke, only Trouble’s delighted shrieking. 

He heads to the cottage. He needs the time to think before he and Sokka have to lie together, and he needs to see it for himself. 

It’s coming up on the end of the first year, and he has a whole new set of chore wheels to plan for. 

The outside looks untouched. Ominous. He can’t remember exactly what happened, but he remembers that something broke. Something— vital. Something _he_ broke. 

He pushes at the half open door, and it slides the rest of the way open. So far so good. Everything is covered in a thin layer of sand and dust, but that’s to be expected. Nothing unfixable. Everything except the floor— some patches of it are cleaner than others. But not in a footprint kind of way, like someone had cleaned. 

Okay. Okay.

Chore wheel. 

He opens the cupboard it should be in. Then he opens four more cupboards, then he rips out the drawers, and after he’s taken apart all the bedding he finally finds it.

In the bin by the door.

In pieces.

He sits heavily on the floor, stares at the shattered wood. The chunk he pulls out has an _H_ carved into it. It’s been so long he honestly can’t remember which of them carved it there, a signature or a tease. Hekka used to call it _the_ chore wheel or _our_ chore wheel, and Zuko exclusively referred to it in rude euphemisms with a sole ownership of Hekka.

 _You need to figure out what your priorities are,_ Sokka’s voice says in his head, and Zuko sees him holding a scared and cringing Trouble. Not actually sees, not like when he was a dragon, but it’s— enough. Burned into his memory in the worst sort of way. 

He gently sets the wooden scrap into the bin. He lets his hand rest over it for a long moment, breathing deeply and slowly. 

“Goodbye,” he says, simply. And then he directs the fire into his palm, lets it burn the last of him up. 

He’s held him here too long, anyways. Not every Fire Nation citizen pays for purification pyres, and it’s usual to hold onto tokens of a former lover’s spirit, to be burned with you when you die. But Zuko— Zuko is never going to die. He can’t tie him here forever, tie Hekka to this world just to watch him struggle and grieve, eternally. It’s— it’s wrong. It’s _wrong._ He’s earned his rest.

The fire dies out, charcoal and ash. For a moment he imagines the ghost of lips on his cheek, whispered words too soft for him to hear. 

But it’s just his imagination. 

***

Sokka slides into bed next to Zuko carefully. He hadn’t come back to the beach, and he can tell by the way he’s hunched over his pillow, clutching it to his chest that he’d been crying. 

Just in case he’s not welcome he trails his hand over the arch of his spine gently, whispering, “can I join you?” 

“Don’t fucking make it weird, you idiot,” Zuko says, nose clogged. He reaches backwards, wraps his fingers around Sokka’s wrist, drags him down and against his back.

Sokka goes gladly, relieved, and kisses the back of Zuko’s neck gratefully. He fits his knees behind Zuko’s, tucking them as close together as they can get, his arms wrapping around Zuko’s waist. 

He didn’t mean anything by the kiss, was just— happy. Relieved. He didn’t _mean_ anything by it.

Zuko grinds back against him, hips wiggling, and arches his neck against Sokka’s mouth. 

The mood shifts immediately. Sokka spreads his thighs and grinds forward, lets Zuko feel how he’s interested, how he’s _immediately_ interested. 

“Can you believe,” Zuko pants, and grabs the hand that Sokka has pressed against his stomach, “That we never bought more lube?”

Sokka laughs desperately. There’s something taut in Zuko’s voice, something he isn’t talking about. Sokka doesn’t know if having sex right now is a good idea. 

Zuko guides the hand he’d grabbed to his waistband, and then drops it. Zuko wants this, and Sokka’s weak, too weak to keep him from anything he wants. Not anymore. Not if he can help it. He’d said no secrets, no lies, and there’s nothing truer than how he feels about _this._

He cups Zuko, groaning at the feel of him, hot and hard and heavy in his palm. Zuko keens and stretches, feet scrabbling against the sheets. 

“Yes, _fuck,_ please,” Zuko gasps out, rocking up into him. 

“I want you,” Sokka confesses, pulling his own underwear down to free himself, grinding against Zuko’s ass. “Please, Zuko, I _missed_ you.” 

“I changed my mind,” Zuko says. Sokka freezes, and Zuko kicks back at him. “Not about— I don’t forgive you for not getting lube, it was going to be _funny.”_

“Spirits,” Sokka curses, and reaches up to press his fingers against Zuko’s lips. “That is in _terrible_ taste.”

Zuko laughs, mouth parting, and Sokka presses two fingers in, lets them rest on his tongue where it’s hot and soft. Zuko licks his fingers, breathing heavily, and Sokka takes the hint and pushes them in further, Zuko’s tongue curling around them. 

“It’s gonna hurt,” Sokka says stupidly. He still wants it. 

“Id will,” Zuko pushes Sokka’s fingers off his tongue and into his cheek, careful so that his fangs don’t scrape them. “It will burn your dick, don’t you fucking dare.”

“Want you,” Sokka whines, pulling his fingers out and pressing them against Zuko’s hole. He doesn’t push in, waiting for permission.

“You are a _trial,_ ” Zuko groans. He presses back, and then away. _“Sokka.”_

“I won’t if you say no,” Sokka breathes, kissing at Zuko’s arm, his chest, wherever he can reach. 

“I won’t say no for _me,_ ” Zuko says, exasperated. “I fell off a mountain today, you’re not going to make a dent.” Sokka bites at a nipple and Zuko whines, wiggling away. 

“I can take the heat,” Sokka grins, pressing his fingers in a little, just a tease. 

“You’re going to regret thisss sssso much,” Zuko hisses.

Sokka stills and leans up, looking Zuko in the eyes. Then he says, seriously, “I will never regret you.” 

“The temperature changes have broken your brain,” Zuko says, and his eyes slide away, his mouth thinning. 

Zuko hasn’t said he loves him. That’s fine. Sokka can live with that. He pushes his fingers in, watching Zuko’s face, the way his eyebrow tilts up, his lips part, eyelids falling closed. 

He’s so indescribably beautiful. He pulls out his fingers and licks his palm, stroking himself once before shifting. 

“This issss sssstupid,” Zuko says one last time, arching his back for a better angle.

“I want you,” Sokka says again, still seriously, wanting him to get it. Needing him to _understand._

“Ssstupid,” Zuko sighs. Then Sokka pushes in, and he gasps, clutching Sokka’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood, eyes wide. “ _Fuck,”_ he says, voice high and breathy. 

Sokka stills, with great effort. “Too fast?” he asks. It’s-- really hot. On several levels.

Zuko claws at him again. _“Move,_ ” he demands. 

Sokka does, tilting his hips so that it’s an easier slide, Zuko spread out beneath him. Zuko’s head falls back as he shifts with him, finding the best angle together, and Sokka’s sweating already. 

“Hey, Zuko,” Sokka says, straining to keep from collapsing of heatstroke or coming. There hadn’t been an abundance of _alone time_ back at the Tribe. “What’s black and white and red all over?”

“This is a joke,” Zuko moans, writhing and trying to get movement out of Sokka. 

“You are!” Sokka says, and kisses his nose. It crinkles adorably. “Also, fox-skunks.”

“I hate you,” Zuko moans, still writhing and still trying to get movement out of Sokka.

“I love you,” Sokka says stubbornly, bowing over Zuko’s body as he starts thrusting, bringing their faces close. He kisses Zuko’s chin. 

“Don’t—” Zuko says, and he turns his face to the side. “Don’t—” 

“I love you,” Sokka says again, a deep rumble in his chest. He kisses Zuko’s cheek, his ear, whatever he can reach. 

“Shut _up,”_ Zuko says wretchedly, turns his face and kisses Sokka. He moves a hand to the back of his head, like he’s trying to hold him there. It’s less focused thrusting and more mad grinding as they kiss each other wet and breathy, trying to find a rhythm that neither of them are willing to meet. 

Zuko breaks the kiss, stares up at Sokka. “It’s— it’s too much, it’s too _much,_ okay? Just let this— let this be enough, we’re enough, like this, right now.”

“I can’t lie anymore,” Sokka admits, and he shifts in just the right way that Zuko’s back arches, pupils blowing. Sokka’s knees slide against the sheets and he readjusts, trying to get Zuko to meet his eyes. It’s so good, so much so soon and he’s pretty sure he’s about to come. 

“Sounds like,” Zuko gasps. “A personal problem.”

Sokka comes. It’s not euphoric, or joyful, or intimate. It’s the natural progression of their bodies sliding together, of hands gripping and friction. 

Zuko follows shortly after, or maybe during. Sokka loses track of it in the moment, and then Zuko just— holds him. Holds him very close, trapping him inside of him and on top of him.

_Sounds like a personal problem._

“Loving you is not a problem,” he finally manages, burying his face in Zuko’s neck as they come down. He can already feel the uncomfortable stinging around his crotch, knows he’s going to have burns punishing him in the morning. It was worth it, to be close to Zuko for those moments. To be in him, with him. 

Zuko presses a kiss to his temple. “Loving me is always the problem, Sokka.”

“As the Chief of this tribe,” he says, “I declare that statement outlawed. These are loving Zuko hours only.” 

Zuko sighs, heavily. “You’re a lot like him. So if it’s anyone’s personal problem, it’s mine. You’re just a _lot_ like him. And I’m not— ready. There was...”

He trails off.

Sokka pulls away, pulls out with a hiss. He kicks the blankets over them despite the heat, knowing that Zuko seeks comfort in them, knowing that they’re on the precipice of something again, of more honesty.

“Does it get easier, talking about him with every new sacrifice?” Sokka asks gently, caressing Zuko’s arm with his fingers. 

Zuko laughs. It’s sad. “Um. I would say— no. But yes. He… most of the others read the books. Eventually.”

“If you’re willing,” Sokka says, ignoring the jealousy like a vice around his chest, the certainty that Zuko can’t love him because he already loves someone else, “I’m ready to learn.” 

***

Zuko doesn’t trust Sokka. He _wants_ to trust Sokka. But he doesn’t. And that’s why he’s not going to give him any more power over him than Sokka already knows he has, because Sokka has— seen how very _much_ power that is. And recently. And he can’t _do it,_ he can’t open himself up to that.

It’s cheap, and dirty, to use Hekka’s memory like this. At least he doesn’t have to wonder if Hekka’s spirit is here as well, watching him use him as a scapegoat, feeling hurt.

“Hekka and me… we wrote the treaty,” Zuko starts, because he has to start somewhere. “Not all of it. But we refined it, together. Refined a lot of it. It wasn’t fully complete until three years before his— his death.” 

He looks at the blankets, because he can’t stand to look at Sokka for this.

“Do you know why it’s fifty years?” he asks, softly.

“Seeing someone you love die is a punishment,” Sokka acknowledges, taking Zuko’s hand in his. There’s something in his voice, something tight, an unnamable emotion. “Nobody deserves that.” 

Zuko shakes his head. “It’s because Water Tribe men, if they’re so inclined, tend to develop— memory issues. Around 70 to 80 years of age. Hekka...”

He squeezes Sokka’s hand, silently. 

“Your great-uncle wouldn’t go home,” he says, quietly. “He had a cough in his last year. The treaty doesn’t protect me from people dying with me, if that’s what they choose.”

Sokka doesn’t say anything, just holds him tighter, listening. 

“He didn’t _know_ me,” Zuko chokes out, eyes watering. “He looked at me like— like I was a threat.”

“Hekka?” Sokka asks, losing track while Zuko’s lost in his memories. The name sounds wrong in Sokka’s mouth. 

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “He… in his more lucid moments, he told me to take him home. And I…”

He thinks of that long, awful flight. Of Hekka, screaming and scared and bewildered. Of him stumbling to the ice and the snow, scrambling away from Zuko as fast as he could. Of what it must have felt like, to wake up on a monster. 

“I had to take someone else to our home,” he says. 

He can feel Sokka’s tears against his neck. Doesn’t know if they’re sympathy or if he’s remembering his own loss, but there's comfort in them. In knowing that at some level, Sokka understands his pain. 

“I don’t want you to love me too much to leave,” Zuko whispers. 

“Do you think,” Sokka says carefully, voice thick. “That you could love someone else?” 

“I don’t _want_ to love someone else,” Zuko says, equally carefully. 

Sokka’s breath stops for a long moment. He nods, resigned, and doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t pull behind the curtain to see the reality Zuko’s trying to obscure, his fear and self loathing keeping him from someone new. 

And Zuko is a coward, because he can’t even stick with his _cowardly tactics._

“It isn’t _fair,_ Sokka,” he says, desperate to make him understand, desperate to not have to spell it out. “You’re going to die. Do you understand that? You are going to age and your body is going to break in a hundred, thousand ways, and some of them are going to be my fault, and at the end of it, you will _die._ And I—”

“Okay.” Sokka says softly, petting Zuko’s hair. He leans up and kisses his cheek. He doesn’t say, _49 years._ He doesn’t call Zuko out on his hypocrisy. Somehow, that makes it harder. 

“I don’t _want_ to,” Zuko says again. He doesn’t know if it’s hitting, the difference. Not _don’t,_ not _can’t,_ just— don’t _want_. 

“Okay,” Sokka says again. He turns Zuko’s face and kisses his mouth once. 

“Fuck,” Zuko breathes, exhausted. He knocks his forehead against Sokka’s, lets his eyes close.

“I love you,” Sokka whispers. “But I’ll stop acting on it. I’m sorry for hurting you. For all of it.” 

“I can’t say it back,” Zuko murmurs. “It feels like a question, and I can’t answer it. I don’t want to hurt you either.”

Another beat of silence, Sokka holding his breath, holding himself back.

“Okay,” he says again.

Silence, and they’re almost in an uneasy sleep. 

“I missed you,” Zuko whispers, very, very quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Sokka whispers, just as quietly.

“...where’s Trouble?” Zuko asks, petting Sokka’s hair. 

“Waiting for Aang on the ship,” Sokka says.

“Who the fuck is Aang?” Zuko asks, wide awake.


	11. Chapter 11

Zuko blinks, confused. Something is slapping him, _hard._

“GOOD YOU’RE AWAKE,” Trouble says gleefully. 

“Regret?” Zuko asks, still half asleep. He feels around for Sokka, who’s no longer underneath him. All he gets is cold sheets, and he blinks himself awake, peeking out the window. 

It’s still the hazy pre-dawn, a gray fog over the island. Zuko probably has another hour yet before the sun will burn it’s way into his veins. He looks to Trouble. It only looks like a glare because of the one eye. 

“Sokka’s being _boring,”_ Trouble complains. “And he hasn’t made me breakfast.”

“You can make your own breakfast,” Zuko says, dutiful to her self efficiency, before immediately moving to fix it for her. 

“That’s what he said too,” she sighs, flopping onto the dragon-warm bed. Her feet are disgusting. “But there isn’t anything fun left to chase.” 

“He’s being boring?” Zuko asks, yawning. He moves into the kitchen, pulls out some flour and then just stares at it for a long minute. Flour… makes… food. He’s pretty certain of that. “What do you want?”

“Cake,” she says, eyeing the flour.

“Yeah,” Zuko says sleepily, pulling the iron skillet down from its hook on the wall. “Flour makes cake.” 

“Sokka’s _reading_ ,” Trouble complains, helpfully pushing the jar of sugar at Zuko. When he turns to pull some butter out of the cellar, she adds two more scoops of sugar in. Zuko knows this because he sees her, because she doesn’t even try to be sneaky about it. 

She had said Sokka was _reading._ Zuko’s clearly dreaming, so it doesn’t matter. 

“Oh? That’s nice,” he says, and decides to just enjoy this. “Can you get me some water, Trouble?”

“And eggs!” she agrees, scrambling out of the cabin and into the woods, where some of the hen-cats escaped Zuko’s wrath and are free-roaming. 

The butter isn’t spoiled, so he puts some in. But he’s slightly suspicious of it anyways, so he doesn’t put a _lot_ in.

It’s starting to feel less and less like a dream. Too many details. The tile under his feet too cold, the early spring air too distinct. 

“He’s _reading?”_ Zuko mumbles.

***

Sokka fucking hates reading.

He’s not good at it, is the thing. And he’s never _going_ to be good at it. Katara used to make fun of him for it, how easily it came to literally everyone else. Dad told him that it was just a sign that he was meant for different things, and after Mom died there wasn’t really anyone to keep insisting on otherwise. 

Dad was also really, really bad at reading. 

“Stay,” he tells the page, uselessly. The words wiggle rudely at him. 

He goes back to looking at the pictures, instead. And the pamphlet has a _lot_ of pictures. 

There’s a map of the island, just like Zuko told him there was so long ago. There’s drawings of hen-cats, and of cow-moose udders, and glass vases, and a betrothal necklace with a big red X through it.

Reading Bato’s book was one thing, written in giant capitalized letters in familiar dialect. It took him a week to read three passages, but he _did it_. 

He’s not doing anything with this one. It’s all— _loopy_. There are entire words written in old Southern Water Tribe Runes, squares and loops stacked on top of each other. He’ll get part of the way through a sentence and then, _wham_ , one of those runes, and he has no idea what it’s about anymore. Even reading out loud to himself, the way Katara used to mock so much, doesn’t help. 

Sokka sets it down for just a second, lets himself stare at the ocean and breathe. He can do this. It’s just the pamphlet, he can _do it._ He doesn’t have to ask Zuko for help, he’ll get it. It’s been a long time since his lessons on old Southern Water Tribe Runes, but it’s just like sledding on a penguin! 

He looks back down at the pamphlet. 

“Fuck,” he says.

“CAKE!” shrieks Trouble from the other side of the island. Sokka’s hiding in the cave, so she must have climbed to the top of a tree to shout for him. It echoes around him and he groans. 

Cake sounds _really, really_ good right now. 

He crams the pamphlet into his pocket, where Zuko won’t see it and immediately get excited.

***

“What have you been up to?” Zuko asks Sokka when he ducks through the door, shoulders tense and mouth pinched at the corners. 

“Nothing,” he says, and stuffs his hands further into his pockets. Something crinkles.

Zuko stills, and takes a deep breath. It probably _was_ nothing. The fact that Sokka is acting like it was something, and Trouble said he was reading, doesn’t mean it _was_ something and they’re right back to where they were before.

Of course, Sokka didn’t always judge what was _important_ very well. He insisted on telling Zuko he loved him, and forgot to mention that there were spirits following everyone on the island around, and that he regularly _talked to the Moon._

Sokka comes up to Zuko and leans in to kiss him, and Zuko can’t help but to swerve out of his way, smoke wisping between his lips in his effort to keep the fire at bay. 

“Made cake,” he says tightly, and picks up the knife to cut Sokka a slice. 

“For second breakfast?” Sokka grins, “You shouldn’t spoil me so much.”

“Second?” Zuko asks.

“He ate in front of me!” Trouble lies, badly. “Didn’t share at all! Don’t listen to him, it’s all lies!”

Sokka looks between the two of them and lifts the basket next to the door. A towel’s been laid over the top, and when he lifts it there’s grilled fish and root vegetables inside it. 

“I brought some for you, too,” Sokka tells Zuko dryly. 

Trouble attempts to scramble out the door with her plate, but Zuko catches the back of her collar. 

“Eat at the table,” he tells her, and grabs his food. 

“Flat cakes,” Sokka hums happily, “my favorite. Can’t I kiss the cook? As a thank you?” He leans in again, playfully, and Zuko ducks and shoulders him away. 

“What were you doing?” Zuko asks, starting on his fish as he sits at the table.

“I was just cleaning up the cave,” he says carefully. Zuko can’t help it when a little spurt of fire dances from his fingertips to the fish. It sizzles. 

“Wow,” he says, flatly. Trouble is eating her food so fast she shouldn’t be able to breathe, eyeing them both warily. “No more secrets, huh?”

It’s Sokka’s turn to still, and he sets his fork down. He looks at Zuko. 

“I’m not keeping a secret. It’s not---important. It’s just…” he trails off, looking away. 

Zuko feels guilty. He hates that he feels guilty. Sokka’s the one who broke his trust, it shouldn’t be on _him_ to— to— _comfort_ him about it.

“It’s fine,” Zuko says anyways, and eats his food. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Trouble drinks her water so fast she coughs up snow, and then she kisses Zuko’s cheek on her way out, singing “kiss the cook thanks!” 

Zuko laughs, and when he touches his cheek there’s a thin layer of frost where her lips had been that melts immediately. 

“I can read,” Sokka says, apropos of nothing. He’s wiping up the sugar residue from his plate with his finger. 

Zuko raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Okay. I can read. My mom taught me, and then she died, and I already knew how so I didn’t need any more lessons. So it’s not a secret,” Sokka says, equally decisively. 

“It’s not a secret that you can… read?” Zuko asks. His head is kind of hurting trying to hear what Sokka’s not saying. “Then why did you lie about what you were doing?”

Sokka pulls his hand out of his pocket and slams the introduction pamphlet onto the table. “I couldn’t find the treaty.” 

“Oh,” Zuko says, and rescues the pamphlet. He has several copies of it, but he smooths it back out on the edge of the table. “I can get it for you? We could go over it together, or—”

“NO,” Sokka yells, and then winces. “I mean,” and he starts to say something, stops, looks frustrated at the wall. 

“You want to read it alone?” Zuko guesses. 

“I am not going to lie to you,” Sokka says to the wall, stilted. “I do not think I am going to need the treaty for at least a few weeks. Days. Weeks. Maybe.” 

“Uh—” Zuko says, and tries to get the lines out of the pamphlet even harder. He gives up when it rips down the middle, lights the halves up out of sheer _frustration._ “What the fuck words are you saying to me. You’re saying words. What do they mean.”

Sokka’s forehead falls to the table with a heavy thud and Zuko stares at him. 

“I can read. It’s just… slow. And also the worst. Not fun. Very annoying.” Sokka says, muffled by the table. 

“Oh,” Zuko says, and then wishes he had the pamphlet to look at. Weeks? “I could… read it to you? Not the pamphlet. The treaty.”

“...yeah,” Sokka eventually agrees. “It’s too important not to. And we need to bring a copy to Bato, so that the tribe has one.” He rolls his head to the side and looks at Zuko, face red. 

“It’s pretty long,” Zuko warns. “I’ll have to take breaks. But I don’t— it’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Sokka asks quickly. 

“Your—” Zuko says, and waves at Sokka’s. “Feelings.”

“Ugh,” Sokka says, and scowls. 

“There,” Zuko pats the air in his direction vaguely. “There.”

“You want me to bite that hand?” Sokka threatens. The blush is disappearing now that he knows that Zuko’s not making fun of him. 

Zuko flushes, snatches it out of the air. “That would be counterproductive.” 

Sokka grins, snapping his teeth playfully, and drags Zuko’s chair closer with his foot hooked around the wooden leg. 

“We need to focus,” Zuko says, feeling extremely focused and on extremely the wrong thing.

“I am,” Sokka says dutifully, and brings Zuko’s fingers to his lips. He holds his gaze and bites playfully at them. “Focused on you.” 

“You’re the worst,” Zuko groans, and stands, tugging for Sokka to release his hand. “Let’s go do something extremely boring for several hours until we want to kill each other.”

“We could do something extremely _satisfying_ for several hours,” Sokka teases, biting at Zuko’s neck as he slips behind him, intent on following him. 

“War,” Zuko says, deeply pained. He takes a step towards the door, and Sokka lets him, so he keeps taking them. “Fucking always with the _wars.”_

*** 

“All duties applicable to the— Sokka?” Zuko sighs, sets the treaty down. 

Sokka’s shoulders hunch in guiltily. “I zoned out again,” he admits. It’s only been an hour, and he hasn’t retained most of what Zuko’s been saying. Instead he’s fiddling with a couple of pieces of hay, tying them into braids and retying them for no reason. 

“Okay,” Zuko says, and puts the treaty down. Then he pushes it a little farther from himself, because he needs to breathe for a while. “Okay. Let’s. Talk about that. How do you normally get your information?”

Sokka hunches his shoulders again, kicking at the dirt. It’s unlike him, and Zuko waits as patiently as he can. Usually it’s Sokka waiting him out, and he doesn’t like being on the other end of it at all. 

“I just _go_ and _find out_ ,” Sokka finally says. “Are we low on food? I go look if there’s food! Do we have a letter? I ask Katara what it says! I just go find out.”

Zuko nods, and pats at Sokka’s knee awkwardly. “Okay. I can do that. I can tell you what it says.” 

“But the exact language is _important,_ ” Sokka says. “It’s also just— impossible to understand. You sound like an elder reading old poems.”

“That’s pretty apt, actually,” Zuko says, shrugging. “They are over 400 years old.” 

“Could you make a...translation?” Sokka asks. Zuko thinks about that. His lexicon has progressed over the years while living with so many different people. It’s why he sounds mostly like Sokka, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still understand the old way of the language.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s going to take a while, though.”

Sokka sighs, slumps. _“Ugh._ ”

***

“Are we going to talk about the war?” Zuko asks late that night. 

Sokka, who already has a hand down the front of Zuko’s pants, sighs deeply. 

“We should,” he agrees. Then he grips the base of Zuko’s cock hopefully. Zuko blinks up at him, unimpressed. “Right...now. We should right now.” 

Sokka pulls his hand out and sits up, adjusting himself, and pulls his knee to his chest in the way that makes him feel confident. All he has to do is push upwards and he can be off of the bed and out of the cottage in moments. 

In case of an attack, or feelings. An attack of feelings, maybe. 

Zuko sits up too, crossing his legs. “So. War.”

“You don’t sound surprised.” Zuko’s taking the information far better than Sokka would have anticipated. Every sign points to the elders being dead wrong in their estimation of him. 

“I knew there was something going on,” Zuko admits. “I just wasn’t allowed to do anything about it, so I tried not to consciously...realize it? And—” he shivers, briefly. There’s a cool breeze in the room that there wasn’t moments before, but then it’s gone. “I’ve been to war before.”

It’s depressing that Zuko’s so used to being lied to by the Water Tribe that he’s careful of _thinking_. The guilt isn’t new, but it had lessened over the last few days. Its acidic fingers grip him now, and he rubs at his chest. 

“I’m sorry for lying,” Sokka says. 

“You’ve said that,” Zuko replies. It’s not cold, just a fact. He’s not absolving Sokka anytime soon. That’s fine. Sokka will have to work for it, like Zuko’s already said. 

“I mean it. You’ve been to war?” 

Zuko nods. “My grandfather was Azulon.”

Sokka makes a little _go on_ gesture with his hand, because that name really doesn’t mean much to him.

“...destroyed the Air Temples? Killed all the air benders? The reason that there are only three elements?” Zuko asks, getting increasingly stressed with each pointed question. 

Sokka scratches at his beard. “There are still Air Nomads who can bend,” he says carefully, really letting the implications of who Zuko is directly related to sink in. That’s some kind of fucking legacy. No wonder his family line was cursed. 

“Oh,” Zuko says. And then he bursts into tears. “That’s— good. That’s _good._ ” Sokka reaches for him, pulling him into a hug. 

Zuko didn’t know. He was specifically told not to mention the nomads-- the Southern Tribe holds a lot of secrets-- but he can’t imagine why the others would have been told about it. It was Chief and elders business. He’s sure that Hekka would have told him, if they were as in love as Zuko acts like they were — but the Air Nomads had stayed hidden centuries, Hekka wouldn’t have known. 

Sokka tells him as much. It’s unfair to be jealous of a dead guy, and bad for his spirit, so he pushes past it. 

“They didn’t know,” he finishes confidently, Zuko still sniffling against his chest in relief. Sokka’s rubbing his shoulders, unbearably grateful to be allowed to offer him this type of comfort. “Not even Bato.” 

“I’m fucking up the war talk,” Zuko says, and then blows his nose in Sokka’s shirt.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Sokka says lovingly. He pulls off his tunic and hands it to Zuko. 

Zuko, eyes red and right one still streaming, cheeks blotchy, nose running, laughs. His lips are extra red too, and when he smiles it makes a snot bubble. Sokka’s heart feels bubbles, too.

Being in love is disgusting, and possibly bad for his health.

“So the war,” Zuko says, giving him a disbelieving glare. He’s smiling, though, so it’s more coquettish than annoyed. 

“The war,” Sokka agrees, and then waits for a question.

“...what’s going on with it?” Zuko asks, shrugging.

“Well, I already told you that they claim to be looking for you. As their one true heir, the usurped and divinely blessed Lord to the Fire Nation. They claim that you were stolen, and the war was started when nobody was willing to give you back.” 

“They’re not...wrong,” Zuko says. “I mean. Uncle _did_ steal me. But my father banished me first, and I was removed from the line of succession, so it doesn’t really...work.”

“In a way,” Sokka agrees, “The Southern Water Tribe started the war by not breaking our treaty with you. But this was so recently that I doubt my grandfather knew you were who they were looking for. Or, if he did, he was advised not to betray you.” 

“I…” Zuko frowns. “Okay. But what can I do now? It’s not like they can claim I’m an impersonator. I’m—” he waves at the scales on his face with his clawed hand. “Dragon.”

Sokka shakes his head. This is part of what he was worried about in telling him. After only a year he knows Zuko, he _knows_ his strict code of ethics, his dedication to his honor. Sokka knew that Zuko would want to intervene, would even feel responsible. 

“You’re a farce,” Sokka tells him. “An excuse for a holy war. If you weren’t readily available, they would have found another reason. War is about money and power, and if you go back they lose all of it.” 

“Oh, I’m not debating that,” Zuko says. “I know what the Fire Nation is like. But they chose the _wrong_ excuse. I can fix this. And if I can’t fix it, I can kill them.”

“An entire army? Of your people, likely just following orders, raised in a nation of lies?” Sokka pushes. He doesn’t doubt that Zuko could.

It still feels wrong.

“I was thinking the people in charge,” Zuko says, and crosses his arms. “I was a stealth unit. I was _the_ stealth unit.”

Sokka thinks about Zuko, huge and lumbering as a dragon, and blinks. “You were what.” 

“It’s— I’m out of _practice,”_ Zuko complains, flushing dully. “...have you ever heard of the Blue Spirit?”

“Have I-- my sister had his _poster_.” Sokka says, making a face. 

Zuko grins smugly.

“Bullshit.” Sokka says, poking him in the chest. 

“I’ll go get the mask,” Zuko says. He makes no move to get up.

“Anyone can make a mask!” Sokka says, a flush crawling up his neck to his face. He doesn’t say how he would...borrow the little brochure that came with the poster, with painted sketches of his fighting style and the little poem about him. 

“Fine, don’t believe me,” Zuko says, face _smug_ , smug, _smug._ “But I was. That’s part of why Uncle tied me here. He knew I wouldn’t be able to stay out of the war, and that I was smarter than any guards he could put on me.”

Sokka frowns, absently taking Zuko’s hand so that he can play with his claws. “Why _did_ you stay?” 

Zuko lets him play with his hand. “At first? Because I promised. And then… where else would I go?”

“IT’S RAINING!” Trouble wails, slamming the door open and crawling under the covers. Her wet hair soaks the blankets and Sokka yells. He leaps back, and then off of the bed to bind the door shut where Trouble had left it open. 

“Come out from there, I’ll dry you!” Zuko says, trying to drag her out. She keeps burrowing in the opposite direction of his hands, soaking more of the bed. “Trouble!”

“At least shift!” Sokka tells her, and she does, rolling herself into a ball.

“NO—” Zuko says, just as Trouble snaps her wings wide and then flaps them, spraying the room with water.

That makes sense. The water doesn’t disappear simply because of Trouble’s magic. “Whoops.” 

“Sokka,” Zuko says. 

“I’ll get the other set,” he says, opening the wicker chest at the foot of the bed and pulling them out. Zuko pushes the dampened, muddy ones to the floor, and Trouble curls up in his lap and shivers, showing her belly.

“Do you want to sleep by the fire or— okay,” Zuko says, and his hands glow as he heats them from the inside. He scratches her stomach with one, lets her nuzzle the other.

“Faker,” Sokka says, because she’s a _winter_ dragon. She grins at him. “Still no Aang?”

Trouble huffs in annoyance, and that answers that. There’s no moon, either, and Sokka’s starting to worry. 

***

“Provisionally?” Yue asks, and then laughs in the Justice spirit’s face. “You want to _bargain_ with me, little man?”

Justice, who is 700 feet tall, glares down at her.

Yue, 6 foot, puts her hands on her hips and glares upwards.

“I am the _moon,_ ” she tells him. “The world needs me more than you need me not to meddle.”

“YOU WILL RETURN TO THE WORLD,” Justice booms. “PROVISIONALLY.”

“Nuh uh,” Yue says. “I’m going on _strike._ ”

“YOU WILL NOT GO ON STRIKE,” Justice booms. 

Yue lays back, hands behind her head, and floats away. “Watch me.”

“THIS IS NOT ALLOWED,” Justice booms.

“Would you like some tea?” Iroh asks.

“...YES,” Justice booms, and sits down for some tea. The chair is very small, yet it does not break. 

“Perhaps you will indulge an old man his stories,” Iroh says, sitting next to him. He has to crane his head all of the way back to see Justice’s face, so he doesn’t, instead watching the leaves twirl in his cup.

“JUSTICE LIKES STORIES,” Justice booms.

“This one is about the Blue Spirit. You won’t have heard of him, because it is a tale of the living.” 

*** 

Zuko snuggles more firmly against Sokka’s chest. Trouble’s curled at their feet, still a dragon, little flurries of snow puffing around her with every snore. Sokka’s trailing his fingers through Zuko’s hair as they watch her. 

“I haven’t finished copying the treaty,” Zuko whispers. “But there’s not a lot of leeway for returning early, and almost none for when I come with you.”

“Fuck the treaty,” Sokka says comfortably. “We need to go back.”

Zuko digs his chin into Sokka’s shoulder. “We do not _fuck_ the treaty.”

“We could if you weren’t a coward,” Sokka says, laughing as Zuko pinches him, outraged. 

“We _honor_ the treaty,” Zuko insists. 

“But our duty is clearly—” Sokka starts.

“Honor!” Zuko hisses, baring his teeth.

“Give me the treaty,” Sokka says, “and I will find a way to go back that doesn’t damage your precious _honor_.” He tugs a little at Zuko’s hair. 

“Stop making fun of me,” Zuko mumbles, but his eyes turn back to Trouble, and he stops digging his pointy chin into Sokka’s soft shoulder-parts.

“Impossible,” he says. “It’s how I show affection.” 

“Hate you,” Zuko says, but he’s smiling, biting at the edge of his lip in the way he does when he’s really happy.

Sokka opens his mouth, about to say _love you._ They both know it. They both see him swallowing the words back down, the sadness that washes over his face and then the mask that replaces it. Zuko stops biting his lip, smile fading.

“That’s me,” Sokka says cheerfully. “Hateable Sokka.” 

“...yeah,” Zuko agrees quietly, and then turns a little, starts gnawing on the end of Sokka’s wolftail. 

“So beautiful,” Sokka reminds him, pulling Zuko down by his hips to free his hair and also snuggle more comfortably against the heat radiating from him. 

“Lemme chew on you,” Zuko grumbles. “It’s how _I_ show affection.”

“Here you go,” Sokka says, puckering his lips. 

Zuko sighs, and then starts chewing on the blankets. “G’night.”

“Wimp,” Sokka says, and kisses Zuko’s neck once. They moved past it. It was only a moment, and it _hurt_ , but they’re going to move past it and any more that arise. And maybe, over time, it’ll start to hurt less.

“Night.” 

***

“Stop _drawing_ and come play with me,” Trouble whines, pulling on Zuko’s pant leg. 

“I’m writing.”

“You’re BORING,” Trouble corrects, and rolls around on the floor groaning like she’s dying.

“Trouble,” Sokka calls from where he’s also writing. “I’m sending a letter to Katara letting her know to expect us. Did you want to tell her anything?”

“Tell her Zuko’s BORING,” Trouble says.

“You do it,” Sokka says, passing her a paper and a piece of charcoal.

Trouble picks up the piece of charcoal, draws a stick figure with long hair and big feet that...are probably supposed to be Zuko’s dragon-talon-things. Then she stares at it critically. 

“I call these doots,” she says, pointing to the feet. “It’s short for dragon-boots.”

Sokka’s too busy laughing at Zuko to respond, but Zuko frowns when he sees the picture. “I’m not sure she’d appreciate a drawing of me. Either draw her a picture of you and Sokka, or write her a letter.” 

“I _am_ writing her a letter,” Trouble says, and then draws herself, frowning angrily at Zuko’s feet. “See? Zuko boring.”

“Trouble,” Zuko says carefully, crouching next to her. He takes the charcoal and writes at the bottom in clear lettering: T R O U B L E. “What does that say?” 

“Why did you scribble on it!” Trouble says. “Ugh! Now there’s _letters_ , she’s gonna _hate_ it.”

“Nah,” Sokka says, catching on and sharing a look with Zuko. Trouble never misses a chance to joke about her name. “Katara loves letters. And reading. And writing. She’s a real nerd.” 

Zuko smacks him in the arm and Sokka says “hey!” and rubs at it. “It’s true.” 

Trouble glares down at her drawing. “I guess it can stay. But _don’t_ do it again.”

“I’m teaching you to read,” Zuko says. He’s not looking at them; instead, he’s looking out the window, a determined expression, fist held up in the air like he’s making an oath. “I can’t believe I’ve neglected your education this entire time.” 

“You’ve taught me tons of things!” Trouble says. “You don’t need to teach me _nerd_ things too!”

Zuko looks at Sokka then, and it’s _not_ amused. 

Sokka laughs in his face. Then he turns to Trouble. “He taught you how to embroider _butts_ onto my shirts. That’s funny _and_ nerdy.” There, he’s helping. He looks at Zuko smugly. 

She squints thoughtfully at him. “And lots of people can read,” she says thoughtfully. “So they’d _all_ get the joke.”

“Wait,” Sokka says, and glances nervously at Zuko. Trouble had made the chore wheels, and those had writing on them. But bringing it up to Zuko doesn’t seem like a good idea. They haven’t mentioned the chore wheels at _all_ since returning, or the meltdown preceding their trip. 

“Oh no,” Zuko says, horror dawning on his face. “Trouble, do you know any words other than the ones I taught you to embroider?” 

“What would I _need_ to know besides Sokka and farts?” She’s stil drawing away, adding in Sokka with a fart coming out of his butt. It knocks over a tree. 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Sokka mutters. 

“You stay out of this,” Zuko says, pointing at him. 

Sokka raises his hands innocently. “Hey, my dad agrees.”

“I don’t even remember how to do those now,” Trouble interrupts. “Useless information.” Sokka points at her, eyebrows raised at Zuko. 

“You,” Zuko says, and shakes his finger at Sokka. “Go read that treaty I spent all day copying out.”

“UGH,” Sokka says, and glowers at Trouble. “You are so lucky that you can’t read.” Then he rushes out of the cabin as fast as he can, fire chasing after him and burning up the silk _butts_ stitched on the back of his tunic. 

***

“I _am,”_ Trouble says smugly.

“I thought you were nothing but trouble,” Zuko says, stooping to her level. “How can you be nothing but trouble if you’re _lucky?”_

“You haven’t won this,” Trouble says with a frown. 

“I ruined the butts on his tunic,” Zuko says. “If you want to do another one, let me know.”

***

They’re all in the cave together. It’s somehow become the dedicated learning location, likely because they already spend so much time together in the cottage and they need a change of scenery. 

Sokka’s carving while he reads. He gets a headache if he stares at the letters too long, so he’s started taking breaks to think over the paragraphs. There was a nice piece of blue lazuli and all the tools he needed to carve. So he’s very quietly carving a dragon into a perfectly shaped oval of blue lazuli and not thinking about it. Or about the deep red leather he’s picked out to set it in.

“THIS IS THE WORST,” Trouble yells at Zuko, who is carefully writing the alphabet on one of the walls in chalk. 

“Worst starts with W,” Zuko says, and writes a big W. “Do you know anything else that starts with W?”

“AGH,” Trouble yells, clutching her head and falling back. “FUCK THIS.” 

“Nope,” Zuko says. “Fuck starts with F. Do you know anything--”

“Farts,” Sokka calls back to them, focused on the curve of the dragon head in the lazuli. 

Trouble laughs, kicking her feet. 

“Very good, Sokka!” Zuko says, in the same exact voice he’s been using with Trouble.

“B is for butts,” Trouble says to Zuko, pointed, trying to get a reaction.

“Very good, Trouble!” Zuko says, and claps for her. “Do you know anything else that starts with B?”

Trouble narrows her eyes. “Bitches.”

“That’s _great,_ ” Zuko says. Sokka is biting a hole in his lip trying not to cackle. 

“BALLS,” Trouble yells, and Sokka loses his battle, howling into his knees. 

“Here, have some jerky,” Zuko chokes out through his own laughter. “You’re doing fantastic. I’m so p— _ahaha—_ PROUD of you.”

“You guys suck,” she decides, but she’s smiling, and chomps on the jerky as she wanders over to where Sokka’s gone back to reading the treaty. She peeks over his shoulder. 

“Whatcha’ readin’?”

“Boring stuff,” Sokka groans.

“That starts with a B,” Trouble says sagely. “All reading is B for boring as balls.” 

Sokka laughs again, and places his finger over the word he was on. He glances at her. “You’re already doing better than me. Wanna give this a go?” 

Trouble wrinkles her nose and skips away. “No way. I’m gonna go chase some fish until Zuko gives up looking for me.” At least she’s not still looking for Aang. She hasn’t said anything to them, but she seems really upset that he hasn’t come back yet. 

“Good luck!” Zuko says, still stuck in his supportive teacher voice. Then he snaps out of it. “Hey, wait—” he calls, chasing after her.

“Just me and you,” Sokka says to the treaty.

***

“I figured it out!” Sokka yells, rushing into the cabin. Zuko startles, dropping the ladle he’d been using on the stew. The stew that _Sokka_ was supposed to make, because it’s _his_ turn to cook.

“Awh, hell, I’m sorry,” Sokka says. Zuko picks up the ladle and wipes it down. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re working, I had the time. You figured it out?”

The betrothal necklace is burning a hole in his pocket. The leather he’d chosen was too thick, and he’d placed the gem too close to the bottom. He’ll have to reset it before he shows it to Zuko, which will be— never. Because he just made this for himself. 

He knows that this is only the first of a thousand moments that he’s going to have to resist giving it to him. 

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “There is _one_ situation where we can come back.”

Zuko picks up the pot, begins transferring it to the table.

He holds up the treaty, grins, and says, “we have to get divorced!” 

Zuko drops the pot, stew splattering the walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've started an 18+ Zukka Chaos discord! Click here [here](https://discord.gg/9qbzhcb) to join.


	12. Chapter 12

“YOUR DEMANDS FOR LENIENCY HAVE BEEN MET,” Justice booms. “YOU WILL NOT BE PUNISHED FURTHER.”

“Wow,” Yue says, and examines her nails. “I’m swooning.”

“YOU WILL RETURN TO BEING THE MOON?”

“Swooning, not mooning, it’s like you don’t even _listen,_ ” Yue says. Two stars high five behind her back. “You will not punish me again. Ever. And if you try, this is what will happen.”

“THAT IS NOT ALLOWED,” Justice booms. “YOU WILL BE PUNISHED.”

“Will I?” Yue asks.

***

The ocean is still. 

They’ve been sailing for three days, and though the wind is high, the ocean is dead underneath them. 

Trouble finds Zuko and Sokka messing with the sails and debating how to move without the ocean’s cooperation. 

“What if you punched the ocean?” Trouble asks Zuko. 

“She’s not even _talking_ to me right now,” Sokka says. Zuko makes a face at both of them. 

“You know, like,” Trouble says, and punches ice and cold air into being. The force of it blows her back a step. “But with the boat.”

Sokka looks thoughtful, hair whipping in the wind. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“We shouldn’t need it,” Zuko says gravely. “Are you _sure_ —” 

Sokka throws up his hands, frustrated and scared and more than a little out of his depth. “We don’t have secret spirit-world travelling messenger hawks, you know! Maybe if I sacrifice at the shrine at the pole, but I’ve never had to do that before.”

“I know that _now,”_ Zuko grumbles. He rolls his shoulders, and then strips out of his shirt. “This is going to suck.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Sokka says. 

Zuko glares at him. “Why don’t you worry about yourself?”

“Impossible,” Sokka grins. Zuko doesn’t look impressed, and he grins wider. 

“Go plan the _divorce_ ,” Zuko spits, and heads for the back of the boat. 

Sokka’s smile drops. 

Zuko punches down at the water, and the boat slowly, resentfully, moves forward.

***

“What do you mean, divorce?” Zuko asks him icily. Sokka cringes, because there’s stew all over the floor and walls and Trouble is slowly inching backwards out of the open window. 

“It’s— well not exactly a divorce? Since we’re not exactly married,” Sokka says. Zuko does not look thrilled by this opening clarification. “But! In the case that we’re incompatible, or have irreconcilable differences, we’re allowed to return to the tribe together for counseling. And then if the counseling doesn’t work, we formally dissolve my sacrifice. It’s to give you time to make sure the next person—”

“I know what it’s to give me time for!” Zuko snaps. “I don’t want to do this. Find another way.”

Sokka doesn’t want to do it either. He doesn’t _say_ that, because then they won’t do it. It feels wrong, not just because they’ve just come to an uneasy treaty (ha!) after his royal screwup with his last visit. 

It’s more like...the time when he was really sick with snow fever, and all he wanted to do was take off his clothes and bury himself in the snow, shoving it in his mouth because he was so _empty_ and _hot_ and he needed to not be that way. That’s how he feels, thinking about his fake divorce with Zuko. 

It’s absolutely insane. 

“There isn’t one,” Sokka says. 

Zuko crosses his arms. They’ve got stew spots on them. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to di-dissolve the treaty with you.” There’s a fragility in the way that he says it, jaw trembling. His claws are digging into the sleeves of his shirt. 

Trouble crawls the rest of the way out of the window, and hits the ground outside at a run.

“It’s not for real,” Sokka says softly. “Just a loophole. For your honor.” 

“That’s not—” Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. Breathes in, breathes out. “Sokka. Honor doesn’t have _loopholes._ If we’re doing this, we’re doing this.” 

Sokka _doesn’t want to do this._

“We’re doing this,” Sokka says.

***

They make it to the South Pole, travel only taking three days longer than usual. Zuko collapses when they’re one day away, and doesn’t wake for fourteen hours. Sokka spends those fourteen hours plastered to him as they drift, afraid that the time spent propelling the boat without him has forced a shift. 

Trouble spends it darting in and out of the clear surface of the water, yelling, “LOOK AT HOW BIG THE FISHIE I GOT IS, SOKKA!”

The fishie is indeed big.

But they make it, Zuko shaking, shirtless, sweaty, eyes barely able to focus. Trouble, relentlessly pestering Sokka about how she’s going to choose mom in the divorce. Sokka, choking on his own heartbreak and anxiety.

Katara meets them at the shore and doesn’t bother to hide the way she’s staring at Zuko, or the way that Sokka’s carrying him. He’s got his arms tucked up against his chest, face turned to press against the exposed skin of Sokka’s neck. 

“He’s sick,” Sokka says simply, shoving past her and heading towards his old hut. Katara’s hut, he supposes. 

“He’s a _dragon,”_ Katara says, but follows him. There’s something different about her that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Trouble launches herself onto Katara’s back, scuttling over her shoulder and underneath her hair. Katara yelps and Trouble snickers, licking her cheek with an icy tongue.

“Did you change your hair?” Sokka asks. No. Still the same stupid hair loopies she’s had since they were preteens. Same beads, too. 

He shoulders his way into the hut. He’s not sure what Zuko needs, but he needs a _lot_ of it.

“Give us some privacy. About a day, and then I’ll be able to see people.” He starts stripping and Katara, used to the universal treatment for cold being body-heat, doesn’t second guess him. 

“Do you want me to try healing him?” she asks, a hand on Trouble’s bottom to steady her.

Sokka stills with his shirt off and glances to where Zuko’s breathing shallowly on his cot. “Oh. I mean, yeah? I hadn’t even…” 

“I’m the smart one,” she sighs, and kneels next to him, removing her mittens. Water flows from the skin at her hip, turning blue. 

“His chi,” Katara says, face scrunched in concentration. “It’s…”

“What?” Sokka asks, and tries to understand the glowing. It looks snarled in some places, big clumps. But that’s normal, right?

“Rancid,” Katara says, and gags a little. “It’s rotten.” 

“What does that mean?!” Sokka asks, more than a little panicked. Trouble’s leaning off of Katara’s shoulder to get a better look, eyes wide and shiny. She sticks a claw out delicately and pulls it back before she can touch any of the visible aura. 

“It means,” Katara says, and frowns. She passes her hands over one of the snarls, the one at his throat. “It means you sure know how to pick them, Sokka.”

She pulls the water out, returns it to her skin. “I can’t do anything for him right now.”

Sokka scrubs at his face and lifts Zuko gently, laying them chest to chest as he sits with his back against the wall. Zuko curls into him naturally, tucking his head underneath Sokka’s chin and pulling his knees up to his chest. 

“Oh!” Katara says. She pulls the water out of her skin, presses it back into Zuko. She stares at the glow silently, fingers moving. 

“Well?” Sokka demands.

“Gross,” she says, and removes it again. “Keep doing that. Healer’s orders.”

“Okay,” he says tiredly. He glances at her. “Where’s Bato? I need to talk to the Chief.” It only hurts a little to say it compared to the ache thinking about Zuko is causing. 

Katara smiles, and Sokka finally puts his finger on what it is about her that’s different.

She’s wearing _his necklace._

“Bato,” he says, heartbroken, and Katara’s eyes widen and she laughs. 

“He gave it to me!” 

“Spirits, Katara, I thought he was dead!” Sokka says, emotional whiplash stealing his breath. 

“That’s Chief to you,” Katara says, grin firmly in the shit eating zone. “Because I was made Chief. By Bato. Who is alive.”

Sokka smiles, then, slow and tentative. “You talked to the North yet? I bet they’re gonna shit an ice brick.” 

“That’s where Bato is,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “Helping with the growing pains in the steam huts. Him and Pakku are getting along…” she grimaces. “Too well, actually.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sokka says. 

“He’s actually pretty good at this politics stuff. Wonder where he learned it all.” She glances down at Zuko where he’s snuffling against Sokka’s neck, moving to pick Zuko’s robe up off of the ground where Sokka had dropped it. 

“Zuko thought that Mom was Chief,” Sokka says, curling his arms defensively around him. She’ll _love_ that. He can’t help the way that he brushes some of Zuko’s hair behind his ear, looking up when Katara makes a noise. 

“Then he’ll fit right in to my tribe, clearly,” Katara says, stuffing something into her pocket. She folds up the robe. “This is soaked in sweat. I’ll put it in with the wash, you keep… making him less rancid.”

“That sounds rude,” Sokka says, making a face. 

“What’s rude is what his water chakra does when you touch him,” Katara says, and mimes vomiting.

“Don’t make it weird,” Sokka says, “it’s a part of the curse.” 

“IS IT?” Katara asks, and hugs the robes to her chest as she stands. “IS IT REALLY?”

“GOODBYE BABY SISTER,” Sokka yells. Zuko grumbles in his arms and Sokka shifts, getting more comfortable. 

Trouble hops up onto the foot of the bed, curls around Sokka’s feet. She’s cool, a nice relief from the overheating he’s experiencing hugging Zuko. 

“He’ll be fine,” Sokka tells her. 

Trouble whuffs at him, and then closes her eyes.

*** 

Katara pulls the necklace out of her pocket and stares at it. 

It’s old, is the thing. It’s like— _really_ old. She knows the look of aged leather, even when it’s well cared for, and this is _aged._ It was probably dyed at one point, she can see the streaks of color in the material that haven’t entirely faded. The blue stone set in the center has a dragon carved into it. 

This isn’t one of their relatives’, so Sokka’s not reusing an heirloom like the one she has from mom. She has no idea where he got it, or why the dragon-- Zuko-- had it in his pocket. 

Sokka had said that the way Zuko’s pleasure centers reacted were because of the _curse._

Katara hopes that’s true. Because if it isn’t, then it’s something she’s only seen in married couples. And she does _not_ want to be thinking about Zuko, and her brother, and this creepy ancient betrothal necklace, and curses, and _marriage._

And even more dire, she doesn’t want to think about the couples who lose a partner, whose spirits are unable to cope without their other half.

“Rancid,” she mutters, and shakes her head at herself. “Sokka…”

He sure knows how to pick them, that’s all she’s saying.

***

Zuko manages to steal a moment, before the boat leaves. He’s been stealing too many moments, lately, but he actually _needs_ this one. 

In the back of the cave, behind the bookcase, there’s a small wooden box he opens every few weeks. Inside is his betrothal necklace. He hasn’t worn it since Bato was here. Zuko’s not a very good leather worker, and he never got a chance to ask Sokka if he is— and then Sokka had _feelings,_ and Zuko had _feelings,_ and people (Zuko) got betrayed by people (Sokka), and Sokka said _I love you,_ and Zuko... never asked.

He opens it now, runs his fingers over the familiar material. The familiar carving. 

“ZUKO WE’RE LEAVING WITHOUT YOU!” Trouble screams from across the island, and Zuko shoves it in his pocket guiltily.

***

Zuko hasn’t felt _sick_ in over 400 years. 

“This isn’t normal,” he says. Tries to say. He’s shivering. He’s shivering _hard._

He bit his tongue a little.

“What do you mean?” Sokka asks him. He’s so warm, and Zuko can hear his heartbeat where he has his cheek pressed against his chest. It’s rabbit fast. “Did you overdo it with the boat? Is it part of the curse, for showing up here as a human?” 

That all sounds wrong. He’s overdone it with his firebending before— he gets _tired,_ and he _collapses._ He doesn’t feel like a piece of his soul is being ripped out. And his curse has nothing to do with the treaty he’d made. 

“N-n-no,” he says. 

Sokka’s worried. He can tell by the way he’s pushing Zuko’s hair off of his sweaty forehead, hands shaking. 

“Okay,” Sokka says. “Shh. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here with you.”

The shaking eases, just a little. 

“D-d-don’t,” Zuko tries, fangs clattering as he tries to get the words out. He’s not even sure what he wants, just that Sokka needs to _not._

“I’m here, I’m _here,_ ” Sokka chants.

“He’s rancid again!” a female voice shouts. “Gods damn you, Sokka, I was gone ten minutes!”

“R-r-rude,” Zuko says, and then passes out.

***

Bato sits next to them easily, palm on Zuko’s forehead and brow wrinkled in concern.

“How’d you convince him to leave the island?” he asks. 

“I found a loophole in the treaty,” Sokka says. “And he wanted to meet with you.” 

Bato looks at him sharply. “You’re not here because he’s sick?”

Sokka shakes his head. “No, he wants to help with the war. He got sick after we’d already left.” He catches Bato’s eyes somberly. “Have you seen the moon, lately?” 

“No one has,” Bato says. 

“Could it be related?” Katara asks, playing with Trouble’s feet where she’s on her back and wiggling around, tail thrashing. 

“...maybe,” Sokka says. “There was another spirit who helped us, not that long ago. And he disappeared too.” 

Trouble stills, whining, and looks at Sokka. Sokka reaches out and pets at her scaly neck in comfort. 

“At least you’re fine,” Sokka says. “Someone’s gotta look out for Zuko, huh?”

Trouble twists her neck so his hand falls off of it, starts gnawing very gently on his palm. He knows he must look like a dope, the way he’s smiling at her, but he doesn’t particularly care. Not in the company he’s currently keeping. 

“What can we do?” Bato asks. Sokka sighs, heavily. 

“I have an idea. It’ll cost the tribe a seal, though.” 

***

The cave is exactly how he left it. It’s possible that he was the last one here, and he glances around and the gently glowing crystals as he steps carefully to the pool of water at the center. 

The shrine to Yue stands facing it. It’s not a depiction of her by any means; simply a large stone with the phases of the moon carved into it, a small one at its base with the ocean.

Just like the ocean, the pool stands still. Katara sets down the supplies as Sokka gently lays Zuko out in the grass. He whimpers, reaching for Sokka, and Sokka carefully uncurls Zuko’s claws from his parka. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m gonna fix you.” 

He and Katara both put a hand on the handle of the knife. They slaughter the seal in unison, saying the prayer, and mark their foreheads with the blood. 

He doesn’t mark Zuko. He’s not a tribe member, and Sokka doesn’t even know what name to give him. Instead he lays a streak across Zuko’s palm, a point to anchor him with them while they call for Yue. 

They push the seal into the pool, sitting cross-legged, and wait. 

“Please,” Sokka whispers. 

***

Yue feels the sacrifice like a punch to the chest, a pull in her gut. 

“NO!” Justice booms. 

“YES!” she cackles, and grabs onto the pull of it with both hands, uses it to drag herself into the material world. Justice swipes for her, but his giant hand goes straight through her. “Provisionally, you may suck my _dick._ ”

***

The moon appears in the water, full and faded. 

Sokka jumps to his feet. 

“Yue!” 

The water ripples outwards, but instead of Yue rising from its depths a stream of pinked water lifts, pressing gently to the mark on Sokka’s forehead. From his periphery he sees identical arms reaching for Zuko and Katara. 

His vision whites out. 

***

There’s a Southern Water Tribe man, standing in front of a big, blue triangle. The big blue triangle has Sokka’s attention immediately. It feels like a… _friendly_ triangle? He doesn’t know how, but it _does._ He knows, more than he’s ever known anything, that that triangle wants the best for him and the people he loves. 

“Do you understand your choice, Hekka?” the triangle asks. 

Hekka puts his face in his hands, braids falling forward. 

“Hekka. The time is now,” the triangle says, not unkindly. 

“Yes,” Hekka says. He drops his hands, straightens. “Yes, Raava. I understand.”

“And what is your decision?”

Hekka glances behind his shoulder— as far as Sokka can see, at nothing. Him and the triangle are on an endless white plain. Whatever he sees causes him pain, though, and he turns back. 

“Yes,” Hekka says. “I will do my duty.”

“I knew you would,” Raava says, and touches him with the tip of the triangle-tail. 

The world turns white, again.

“Oh my….” Katara says, and exchanges a wide eyed glance with Sokka. 

“Is that blood?” Zuko says, stirring. He sniffs at the air, and then looks around him. “Woah. Where—” 

Sokka falls to his knees and pulls Zuko to his chest, holding him close. He’s only shaking a little, but his breath is coming fast and hard. 

“Hey,” Zuko says. He makes a movement that suggests he would have hugged back if Sokka wasn’t pinning his arms to his sides. 

“I thought you were dying,” Sokka admits. 

“I—” Zuko says, and then clearly rearranges the sentence. “I think I might have been?”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT I WANT TO HEAR,” Sokka yells, pulling back to glare at him wetly. “YOU ARE AN IMMORTAL DRAGON! THAT’S AGAINST THE _RULES._ ” 

Katara coughs into her fist, watching them. 

“Calm— hey, calm down, I can’t die if I try,” Zuko says. This time he has enough leverage to bring his hands up. He uses them to wave at Katara. “Hi. Hello. Zuko here.”

“Hello,” she says, “I’m Chief Katara. Did you see that vision too?” 

Zuko’s hands freeze mid-wave. “Sorry, what? Did you— also almost die? Why are we all in a cave covered in blood _almost dying?_ ”

Sokka looks at him intently. 

Zuko blinks innocently at him. 

“I saw a vision,” he says. Zuko doesn’t react. “Of a spirit called Raava.” 

Still nothing but blankness. 

“And Hekka! Hekka was there!” Sokka says. 

“So I… didn’t almost die,” Zuko says, and looks incredibly disappointed. Sokka smacks his upper arm, hard. “Ow!”

“That’s NOT FUNNY,” Sokka chokes out, frowning furiously. The idea that Zuko would happily die to be with Hekka-- yeah, he can see it. He understands in an abstract sort of way that living for so long must be… well, a curse. 

The reality is too much for him, though, and Sokka swats him again. 

“Sorry!” Zuko snaps, and rises to his feet. “So— what, it was real? Or a memory? Also, I really can’t stress this enough, but _why are we in a cave. Covered in blood._ Having VISIONS?!”

“This is Yue’s shrine. You were dying, and she’s tied to Sokka for some reason, so we came to ask for help,” Katara says gently. 

“I _was_ dying?!” Zuko snarls, and then kicks a rock. It bounces off the wall and directly into his face. “FUCKING SPIRITS!”

Sokka covers Zuko’s mouth with his hand, offended. “You can’t _say that_. She just _saved your life._ This place is sacred!” Sokka lectures him, shaking him a little. 

Zuko shrugs Sokka off. His face is twisted, angry. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he spits, and heads for the mouth of the cave.

“That’s tunnels!” Katara calls. “It’s the other way!”

He turns around, marches out the other way.

“Sokka, you may not want to hear this,” Katara starts.

“Rancid? Are you going to say rancid?” Sokka asks.

Katara shrugs. “Well. If you already _know._ ”

“YOU’RE RANCID!” Sokka yells at her.

There’s a shout from outside of the cave, and by the time Sokka and Katara get outside all they see are a pair of dragon feet sticking out of a mound of snow at the bottom of a drift. 

***

Sokka drags the seal back to camp. Wasting food isn’t an option, even food that’s been used in a ritual. He knows that Yue won’t mind. 

Well. He glances at the sky, where there’s still no moon. He _hopes_ she doesn’t mind. 

She’s never minded _before._

***

“YOU CANNOT ESCAPE PUNISHMENT,” Justice booms.

Yue slams her fists on the table. They leave pink-tinged pools of water in their wake. “You can’t escape ME,” she yells, the luminescent shackles shaking. “If you don’t want spirits MEDDLING, maybe don’t let HUMANS BECOME THEM.” 

“I DO NOT CONTROL THE WAYS OF THE SPIRIT WORLD,” Justice booms. “ONLY THE WAYS IN WHICH JUSTICE IS ADMINISTERED. RETURN TO THE MOON AND CEASE MEDDLING, SPIRIT YUE.” 

“You don’t control the ways of the _spirits_ either,” Yue says. “You think you can just lock up anyone who doesn’t agree with you?”

“YES,” Justice booms.

“WELL MAYBE YOU CAN,” Yue booms back. “BUT I’M NOT TRAPPED HERE WITH YOU. _YOU’RE_ TRAPPED HERE WITH _ME._ ”

“NO,” Justice booms, and leaves.

“AAAGHHHH!” Yue screams, and slams her fists bloody on the table.

***

Zuko’s sulking outside Katara’s hut. When he sees Sokka dragging the seal, he drags himself to his feet. 

“I could help,” he offers through gritted teeth. 

Sokka keeps dragging it. “No thanks.”

“I’d like to help,” Zuko says, and falls into step with him.

“Why don’t you take some time and rest?” Sokka suggests. “Since you just almost _died._ ”

“I’m not trying to work myself to death!” Zuko says, and then falls into another snow drift.

“Yuh-huh,” Sokka mutters. “Super out of character, you trying to work yourself to death.”

***

That night, Sokka dreams he’s sailing a large log boat bound together by twine and tree fiber. He knows, somehow, that it’s a canoe, despite it looking nothing like the canoes he’s ever sailed.

The night air is dark and deep, and the stars above reassure him. When he reaches the correct place, he shouts a command to the others, in a language he doesn’t quite hear.

The others. There’s others on the boat— his sisters, his mother. They laugh, fire sparking in the dark as they light the wick. Then they scramble back. His eldest sister elbows him, and he elbows her back. 

Then they turn their faces to the sky, and it explodes with color.

A few moments later, across the curve of the ocean, miles and miles away, more colors ignite in the sky, painting it with the celebration of their people.

He tells his sister something. She laughs, sharp even when muffled by the thunder of the fireworks, and tells him something else. Then their mother shushes both of them, and they raise their hands in supplication to the moon.

***

“The elders lost most of the papers pertaining to Zuko,” Bato says, sitting across from them in the hut.

“We brought copies of all of them,” Zuko says. “And the translated version I made for Sokka.”

Bato takes them, but he doesn’t really need to read them. Zuko knows that Bato read them all while with him, more than once. Bato was a voracious reader.

“Sokka says that you’re here to speak about the war,” Bato says.

“No,” Zuko says, and crosses his arms stubbornly. “That would be breaking the treaty. We’re here because of an irreconcilable difference.”

“Which is?” Bato prods.

“That I want to break the treaty and come here,” Sokka says, and crosses his arms just as stubbornly.

Bato coughs, face turning red. “I— see.”

“You have to council us,” Sokka presses, and Zuko rolls his eyes, turning to Sokka. 

“No,” Zuko says. “The counselor is chosen by—” 

“Me,” Sokka snaps, “and the only qualified people are--”

“The injured party!” Zuko snaps back. “You’re not the injured party!”

“I’m injured!” Sokka yells, jabbing at his chest with his thumb. “And I’m a fucking _party,_ even if you can’t appreicate that _.”_

“OH?” Zuko says, just as loudly, laughing meanly, “YOU got left to be tortured by a curse for weeks? That was YOU?” Zuko covers his mouth with his hand, faux surprise. “I AM SO SORRY!” 

“I’m sick of you putting a dead man first!” Sokka shouts back. 

There’s silence. Bato’s shaggy eyebrows are nearly to his hairline, and Zuko feels...calm. He puts his hand in his pocket, caressing the betrothal necklace with his thumb.

“I accept your kind offer of counseling,” Zuko says to Bato. 

“I didn’t actually make one,” Bato says. Zuko ignores that. 

“As you can see, we are a relationship in crisis,” Zuko continues.

“I _wish_ we were a relationship in crisis,” Sokka mutters darkly. “If you have it your way, we’d just be in crisis.” 

“I’m afraid that what’s suffered most is our sex life,” Zuko says, poker faced. “Sokka’s terrible in bed, and I’ve been hiding my true feelings to spare his. It’s driven us apart.”

“ZUKO,” Sokka yells, lunging for him. Zuko easily dodges away, and then scrambles out of reach entirely, claws shoved into the deep ice of the walls. He’s not smiling. “You’ve never spared my feelings for a MOMENT you lying snake.” 

“Fucking haven’t I?” Zuko demands, dangling upside down. “How would you know? Isn’t that the point of _sparing,_ that you wouldn’t _notice._ ”

He’s starting to feel sick again, really, really sick. He’s shaking, his claws leaving large cracks in the ice, sweat beading along the back of his neck and his temples. 

“Zuko,” Bato says firmly. “You’re being ridiculous. Sokka doesn’t want to abandon you again. Sokka, stop letting Zuko misdirect you. Going for your dick is classic, I can’t believe you’re falling for it.”

Zuko drops back onto the floor, aggressively shoving his cold hands underneath Sokka’s parka to get some skin on skin contact. The sick feeling doesn’t quite go away, but it dissipates.

Sokka grumbles but scoots closer.

“I didn’t want to abandon you the first time. I thought that we worked this out already,” he says. “Why are you mad again?”

“Again?” Zuko scoffs. “You think because we jizzed on each other, everything would be magically better? I told you it would take _years_ to trust you again, and the next fucking week you try and divorce me.”

“WE’RE NOT MARRIED!” Sokka yells, throwing his hands out. He looks wretched, but Zuko doesn’t care. 

“It’s really not that different,” Bato says. They both glare at him. “What? There’s no use splitting hairs. Fifty years together on honeymoon island? Mister eternally flexible?”

“I fucking hate you,” Zuko snarls. Bato smiles benignly at him, and Zuko relents, because it’s actually really good to see him. He never gets to see them after. 

“I don’t want to think about that,” Sokka says. “No more references to that. Ever. Please.”

“Have you done that thing with--” Bato starts to ask, and Sokka covers his ears and starts singing loudly. Zuko doesn’t quite smile, but he looks warmly at Bato, shrugging. 

“I missssed you too,” Zuko tells Bato while Sokka is distracted. Bato squeezes Zuko’s knee once, and Sokka stops covering his ears.

“What are we gonna do?” 

“I think something’s wrong with me,” Zuko admits. His hands are still under Sokka’s shirt, and he kneads absently at the skin. “I feel— I feel cornered. I know what’s going on, I know why we’re doing this, but I feel so _sick._ ”

Recognition crosses Sokka’s face and he nods, crossing his arms again. “I feel sorta panicked, actually. But I’m not affected by your curse, so it’s probably just residual from being around you.” 

“About that,” Bato says, and clears his throat. “Katara just keeps saying that Zuko’s chi is rancid—” 

“Rude,” Zuko and Sokka chorus.

“--but she says it’s noticeably affected by Sokka being near. It’s possible…” Bato trails off, and then shrugs. “I don’t know what’s possible. He’s a dragon.” He points at Zuko, demonstratively. 

“Well,” Sokka says, thinking, “has anyone broken up with you before?”

“Yes,” Zuko says, and doesn’t elaborate. 

Sokka stares at him. 

“No one’s broken the _treaty,_ ” Zuko says. “But I’ve lived with seven men other than you, and I’ve had partners before that. This isn’t breaking up. This is something else.”

Sokka makes a ‘continue’ gesture with his hand. “Yeah, yeah, treaty important, honor, yadda yadda.” 

“And? I’ve never done this before! I don’t know what’s normal! I didn’t get a _pamphlet_ with my curse!” Zuko says. He pulls his hands out of Sokka’s shirt, gets some distance. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” Bato decides, standing on shaky legs. Zuko moves to support him, not missing the sour expression Sokka gives them.

“I think you’re right,” Zuko says, leaving Sokka alone, arm hooked in Bato’s.

***

That night Sokka dreams again. It’s just as vivid as the night before. 

He’s sneaking from iron boat to iron boat, heart in his throat. The moon above shines down, full and round, but its light doesn’t touch him, and the shadows seem to follow him. He offers a prayer of thanks to Tui. 

He lights the blasting jelly.

***

“We’re already here,” Sokka says, at counseling again with Zuko and Bato. He wonders how many times they will have to do this, fidgeting with the betrothal necklace in his pocket. “Why can’t we just talk about the war and go about our business?” 

“Because the elders are talking about the war,” Bato says. “And considering whether to release Zuko from the treaty.”

“Also, when we tried to skip yesterday I almost died again,” Zuko says. He’s laying down on the floor, tapping his foot absently, toe claws scoring the rugs. 

The underlying panic is still a steady reminder that something is very, very wrong. Sokka focuses on his breathing, palm against the back of Zuko’s calf for contact. He caresses the skin absently. Fondly. 

“But,” Zuko says, cheerfully. “Don’t feel like we have to do this on _my_ account.” Then he pulls his leg away. “I would literally rather die.”

“Fine,” Bato says, fed up with them. Sokka doesn’t blame him. “If you are both going to be petty and act like children, then I don’t see any reason to prolong the inevitable.”

Zuko shoots into a sitting position, eyes wide. The breath leaves Sokka’s lungs. 

“All we can _do_ is prolong the inevitable,” Zuko snaps. “Unless you’re ready to send me back with someone else.”

“Maybe I am,” Bato says. “I’ll go with you. Sokka, you are hereby absolved of your duties.”

Zuko sucks in a sharp breath, nails scoring the furs, and bares his teeth at Bato. It’s animalistic, just the same way that his spine is arched and his jaw is shivering. 

“Woah!” Sokka says, and holds his hands up. This feels wrong, so wrong on so many levels. Bato shouldn’t be returning to the island with Zuko— Bato _can’t_ return with him, Sokka won’t let him. 

Zuko shouldn’t let him. Maybe Zuko can’t love him, but they have something. They have something big, and the idea of losing that rips inside of him, blades dragging through his spirit. He’s certain, the same way he was when Bato offered to go back the first time, certain against all logic and sense and circumstances that not being with Zuko is a mistake. Is the biggest mistake he could make.

He’s still grasping the necklace in one hand, and Zuko’s eyes zero in on it. They’re more gold and black than white, and the scales stand rigid and red against his skin. Without thinking, Sokka kneels in front of him and wraps it around Zuko’s neck. Zuko’s shivering beneath him, still growling, but he allows Sokka to clasp it.

“I have no idea what to do with you two,” Bato says, and slaps the floor with his cane. “What is wrong with both of you? It was a _temporary_ solution!”

Zuko falls to his ass, hand trembling where it’s caressing the stone at the center of the necklace. 

“I can’t,” Sokka says, helplessly. “He’s— it’s my duty to be with him.”

Zuko looks at him, terrified, and flees. 

Bato slaps the floor with his cane again. “No! It’s not! Sokka, _honestly.”_

“What did I _do?”_ Sokka says, staring at his hands. 

“That’s what I’m asking!”

***

Zuko finds himself in the cave. 

He doesn’t want to be in _Yue’s_ cave, but it’s the only cave he knows of, and he wants to be in a cave. So he’s in Yue’s cave.

“I won’t throw any rocks,” he announces in the entrance. His voice echoes. 

He takes a cautious step in. No rocks bounce at him. 

They have an understanding, then.

Zuko sits down by the water, stares at the necklace in his reflection. And then he scrambles at his neck with the clasp, pulling it off. 

“What?” he breathes. He reaches in his pocket, pulls out Hekka’s necklace. _“What?!”_

He knows that Sokka’s never seen it. It’s been packed away in its hiding place since it became too damaged to wear, and it wasn’t high on his list of priorities to ask Bato to fix. He’s never shown it to Sokka, and the box has never been touched. 

The carvings are identical. 

“Did you do this?” he asks the moon in the pool. 

The moon, predictably, does not answer.

He thinks about Hekka, about his vision. “Did _you_ do this?” That question hurts, deep in his chest, and he clutches the necklaces to try and stymie the pain. 

He’s feeling kind of sick again, not having it on. But he can still handle it. 

Sokka had set the stone too low in the leather. Zuko would call it coincidence, but nothing about this can be coincidence.

Zuko’s a bad leather worker.

He makes it work, anyways, sets Hekka’s stone above Sokka’s, and then reclasps the necklace. 

“This isn’t funny,” he tells the moon.

The moon doesn’t say anything.

***

“IT’S FUCKING HILARIOUS!” Yue yells, craning her neck to try and push her face through the edge of the pool. She can’t quite reach.

“I DIDN’T EVEN MEDDLE, he’s just LIKE THAT,” she calls. “SUCKS, DON’T IT?”

***

There’s smoke on the horizon when Zuko exits the cave, and he can see the crown of an imperial ship as it crests against the horizon. 

“Always with the fucking _wars,_ ” he sighs, and heads for the village at a run.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We have a couple of trigger warnings. If you would like to skip spoilers, don't read past the asterisk lines. We describe Yue's death in detail in this chapter, and if you'd like to skip this chapter we can recap it in comments on request. 
> 
> ***
> 
> TW: Drowning, attempted drowning, mass murder, assisted suicide. 
> 
> Drowning: A vivid scene of a character drowning. 
> 
> Attempted Drowning: A brief reaction to an almost drowning. 
> 
> Mass Murder: An entire ship's crew is killed in the night by Sokka, Katara and Zuko. Not explicit. 
> 
> Assisted Suicide: A character is assisted in their drowning.
> 
> ***

Sokka’s sending everyone to the bunkers built behind the closest cropping of ice and rock while Katara gathers their armor and weapons. It takes a while for the ship to actually make contact with the shore, busy slowing it’s approach and navigating around ice that could damage it. 

It gives them some time. 

Pakku’s reinforcing the bunkers, because, according to him: “I’m not staying out here when those savages arrive.”

Katara calls him a coward not-quite under her breath, and Bato mourns the peace he’s managed to broker with Pakku during their sauna sessions. 

She and Sokka are just applying their facepaint when Zuko gets there, sliding into the hut at full speed and slamming into Sokka’s side. They instinctively pull off gloves to hold hands, skin to skin, and Zuko’s face is red from where the icy wind was whipping it. 

“Where do you need me?” Zuko pants. 

“Out of _sight_ ,” Sokka says, passing Katara her leather-bound waterskin. 

Katara takes it, and when she glances over to thank him, stills. 

“Sokka,” she says, voice ice cold. Sokka glances at her, confused, and tightens his bracers. _“What_ is Zuko wearing?”

Sokka looks, breath catching in his throat. He tightens his grip on Zuko’s hand, face paling and then immediately flushing. Then he squints. 

“Clothing,” Zuko says, and gestures to his tank top and pants. “You may have heard of it?”

“There’s _two_?” Sokka asks, biting off his other glove so that he can touch it without letting go of Zuko’s hand. 

“Hey—” Zuko says, but Sokka’s fingers have already settled on the near-identical carving.

The world goes white.

***

“Take it,” he says, shoving the necklace at Zuko.

“I don’t _like_ jewelry,” Zuko says, and throws a pencil at him. He dodges it.

“It’s not jewelry,” he promises. Zuko’s recently cut and sold his hair to give them some money for the winter, and it’s growing out over his eyes and ears, shaggy and boyish. His red, scaled ear peeks out from the fringe, and Hekka wants to pinch them. 

Zuko finally turns away from where he’s charting out the next year’s chore wheel— Tui, he’s gotten so into it, Hekka’s so _proud_ of him— to glare at him. 

“Hekka,” Zuko says. “What did you waste money on?”

“A betrothal necklace,” Hekka says, and waggles his eyebrows. “Also I didn’t waste any money. I _made_ it. For you! Toiled over it, really, fingers _bloody_ with effort, pouring all of my love and devotion into this one, single act of selflessness.” 

At the word betrothal, Zuko had gone several shades too pale, and then grew increasingly red with each sentence afterwards. He reaches out, snatches it from Hekka’s hands, staring at it.

“A dragon?” he chokes out, laughing as he traces the carving with his talon. It’s the perfect width for him to do so. 

Hekka snickers. “It’s _you._ I made you look handsomer than you actually are, but that’s just an artist’s—” 

Zuko jumps him, gnawing on his shoulder. 

Hekka feels so happy he thinks he could learn to airbend in that moment, could float to the heavens with Zuko chewing on his shirt. 

“Ow— princess, blunt teeth _only,_ ” he says, and tugs on the back of Zuko’s hair. It’s just long enough to get a good grip in, so he does, pulls Zuko’s head back. “Let me put it on you?”

“Alright, take stuff off,” Zuko says, sparks on his tongue, fingers worming down the back of Hekka’s pants.

Hekka laughs, clasping the leather at the back of Zuko’s neck, fingers following the edge of it, coming to rest on the carving. 

****

“Sokka!” Katara says, shaking him. “Sokka!”

Sokka is...on the ground. And Sokka. He’s _Sokka._

“What _is_ that?!” He asks, and his voice comes roughly. He coughs a few times, trying to clear it. 

“We _will_ be talking about this later,” Katara says, venomous as she glares at Zuko. Zuko is kneeling on Sokka’s other side, face tight with concern. “But we don’t have time right now. Zuko, get in the bunker with Trouble. Sokka, are you dying?”

“I’m always dying,” he says brightly, directly at Zuko. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Zuko says, and shoves some snow down his collar. Sokka shrieks, and goes to slap at him.

“Boys!” Katara snaps, “You really need to take your blinders off and _focus!_ Fire Nation war ship? Remember?” She ties her hair back into a braid and tucks it in the hood of her parka to keep it out of grabbing range. 

“I’m going,” Zuko says, standing. “If you need me—”

“You’ll know,” Katara says. “Now get _out_ of here!”

***

It takes almost three hours for the ship to finally come to a standstill. Pakku ends up standing with them, rather than hiding. It’s not comforting to either of them; the North has a tentative truce with the Fire Nation, per virtue of their impenetrable ice fortifications, and they’re still not entirely certain who’s side he’ll take, representing the North. 

Making an alliance with the Southern Water Tribe, which is actively being subjugated, would reflect poorly on them. Somewhere out there, Southern Water Tribe warriors are chipping at the edges of the Fire Nation in conjunction with Earth Kingdom armies. The Fire Nation claims to own their waters, which is why they can even sail in like this. If they think that the North is going to give material or military aid…

It doesn’t bear thinking about, with the South’s oldest warrior at the age of nine.

The metal gangplank falls, slamming into the ice and cracking it dangerously deep. Katara doesn’t dare fix it, unwilling to reveal her ability to waterbend. Steam escapes from the ship, and smoke, and eventually three men step down onto the ice. They’re shrouded, dramatic, and in full armor when they finally step into sight. 

“Welcome to the Southern Water Tribe,” Katara says, bowing in the Fire Nation style. Dressed completely in tribal war gear and in full face paint, it’s a mockery without being specifically disrespectful. 

“I am Captain Lee,” Captain Lee says, and refuses to return the bow. “Explain the anomalous naval movements we’ve observed.”

“I am Chief Katara, daughter of Hakoda and Kya,” she returns, staring Captain Lee down. “I do not know to which you refer.” The wind whips her hair beads into her face, snow drifting against her cheeks and eyelashes. She doesn’t flinch. 

Captain Lee bristles, and stomps his foot, pointing at the boat that Sokka and Zuko had arrived on. “That! You stupid peasant! Explain what that boat has been doing travelling through Earth Kingdom waters and back so often!”

Katara tilts her head, considering. The Captain and his men are not wearing proper gear, their ears and noses deepening in red as the blood rushes to their face, trying to stave off frostbite. She pauses for a long, long moment. 

“It’s for fishing,” she says simply. “It’s in the waters for fish.” 

“Fishing?!” he takes several steps forward, shoves his finger right in her face. “You can’t fool me. You’ve been _smuggling._ ”

“Fish below a certain length are not taxed, even in Earth Kingdom waters,” she continues, unbothered. 

“I’m supposed to believe that old man has diamonds on his coat from _small fry?”_ Captain Lee twists, points at Pakku. Pakku doesn’t react, staring at him blandly. “Answer me, old man!”

“My grandfather is dumb,” Katara says. “And also very selfish. Would you like a breakdown of our class system here at the tribes? I can explain to you how years of—”

“Class? You _have_ no class,” Captain Lee spits. “But you do have money that doesn’t belong to you. Pay us in full by tomorrow.”

“How much would you ask us for our legally obtained small fry?” She asks. Sokka glances at her, surprised that she’s giving into his demands so easily. He burns with the desire to speak up, to step in. 

But this isn’t his tribe anymore. He tightens his grip on his spear. 

“Well, there’s the obstructing justice charge, the late payment, the lying charge, the having an ugly stupid face I hate charge,” Captain Lee nods. “500 gold should do it.”

“Five _hundred—”_ Sokka splutters.

“Maybe her grandfather will learn to be less selfish, eh?” Captain Lee says. There’s a bit of spit frozen on his chin. “Men! Reboard!” 

They do, but he stops at the top of the ramp, turns around. “Payment in full! Noon tomorrow!” 

The metal gangplank hisses upwards, resealing the ship. Katara finally lets her face twist up in rage, angrily fixing the cracks in the ice in a fit of tantrum. “THOSE CROOKS!” 

“They’re going to search the Jasmine Dragon,” Sokka says to her, worried about what they’ll find. He doesn’t have half an idea of what Zuko keeps in there. 

“We’ll be lucky if they don’t _confiscate_ your stupid boat,” Katara says, stomping towards the bunker. “Pakku, you might need to give them your coat.”

“I don’t see why,” Pakku says, strolling sedately along beside them. “Unless you’ve changed your mind on the terms of alliance, of course.”

“The terms—” Katara grinds to a halt. “Listen here, you sexist old scoundrel, I am _not_ going to sell myself and my tribe to your Chief for a _coat._ ”

“Then I suppose I’m not going to give them my coat,” Pakku says, and smiles at her. He heads for his diplomatic hut, completely bypassing the bunker. 

“Katara?” Sokka asks. “What do you mean _sell_ yourself?”

Katara ignores him, pushing into the bunker. 

Trouble launches into his arms when they enter, wrapped up in more of Katara’s old furs. She’s staying a girl until the Fire Nation leaves, the better the blend in with the other children should there be a surprise attack of some sort. 

“Can we go?” she asks, eyes big. Zuko stands from where he’d been curled away from the other tribes members, the wariness evident between everyone. He sets a hand on Trouble’s shoulders and looks questioningly to Sokka. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs quietly. “We’ll talk outside with Katara and the others.” He’s not sure what Katara plans to tell the tribe; it’s not his choice, and so he does his best not to think of what _he_ would do. 

Especially since he clearly doesn’t have all the information. 

“What do you mean, sell yourself?” Sokka asks her again once they’re outside. Zuko slips his hand in his, warming his fingers to the bracing cold without his glove. 

“Pakku has proposed a political marriage,” Katara says. “He wants to marry me to his nephew, the Chief, to seal the treaty. But he’ll _only_ accept me if I’m Chief. And under Northern law—”

“Everything you own is your husband’s,” Sokka says. “And women hold no political or military power once married.” 

“Precisely,” Katara says, and then stomps her foot. The ice cracks underneath her, and she smoothes it out. Then she does it again. “I! Cannot! STAND! Him!”

Zuko itches his nose and asks, gently, “wanna burn it down?” 

“We can’t just burn Pakku,” Sokka says, sadly.

“He means the Fire Navy ship, you moron,” Katara snaps, shoving Sokka. Sokka sways, pouting. 

“It sounds like talks went bad,” Zuko says, and shrugs. “I’m good at breaking and burning stuff, and they can’t kill me.”

Sokka knows that they’re both thinking of the decimated island. He glances at Zuko, but he doesn’t glance back, eyes on Katara earnestly. 

She thinks about it. “They think we’re smuggling. They want 500 gold, and probably your ship, and if they get it they’re not going to stop extorting us once they know that they _can._ ” 

“Unless corrupt military officers have changed in the last 400 years,” Zuko says. “They haven’t reported back that they’re here and why.”

“We’ve stayed safe through relative obscurity until now,” Sokka agrees. “It’s not worth the effort to harass us, since we’re destitute. No warriors after the massacre when,” he stops glances at Katara. Her face is stony. 

“Since mom died. They can’t find out I can waterbend,” she says. “If even one of them survives to make it back…”

“So we kill all of them,” Zuko proposes. Trouble, curled up in his arms, nods. 

“Yeah, kill all of them,” she agrees like the tiny bloodthirsty half feral dragon she is.

“And since they didn’t report their activity, nobody knows that they were here,” Sokka adds. “Also, you’re staying in the bunker.” This is directed at Trouble, because even though she’s a mostly feral dragon, she’s still _eight._

“But killing,” Trouble pouts. 

“They won’t taste good,” Zuko says, with a degree of certainty that Sokka has _questions_ about. Katara looks like she also has questions, but is forcing them down for the sake of the child. 

“Also, I need you to protect the tribe. I don’t think we can trust Pakku,” Katara says conspiratorially. Trouble’s face is catching the snowflakes as they fall, sticking without melting. She grins, showing off her fangs. 

“I don’t need to sleep,” she nods in agreement. 

“Creepy,” Sokka says cheerfully. 

“Go give him hell,” Zuko says, and sets her down. He catches her by the shoulders when she tries to sprint off. “Okay, little less hell than that, though. Don’t start an international incident. Remember to eat. Brush your tee—”

“LEMME GOOOOO!” Trouble wails, and breaks free. 

Zuko watches her sprint back into the bunker. “PRACTICE YOUR LETTERS!” he calls.

She sprints faster, clouds of snow rising behind her.

“There. She won’t be back for a while,” he says, turning to Katara and Sokka with satisfaction in his eyes.

Sokka turns to Katara and says, “Did you know that Zuko was the Blue Spirit?”

***

“I am the Chief and I can have you banished,” Katara threatens. She’s digging in one of her storage chests, and when she turns, items clutched to her, she scowls. “And I’m also the head of the family, who you didn’t even _ask_ before getting engaged. You have _no_ power here. Understand?”

Sokka, mouth open in a delighted grin, points at the items in her arms.

“Is that a _Blue Spirit mask?”_

“HE WAS VERY POPULAR WHEN I WAS A KID,” she yells, tossing the mask at Zuko. She’s not looking at him. She _refuses_ to look at him. 

She’s been refusing to look at him straight on since Sokka collapsed. 

Zuko looks it over, stroking the lacquer. It’s familiar, if a little off in some hard to define way. He squints down at it, trying to place what’s wrong. “Hm. Nose is wrong.”

“Those _liars_ ,” Katara hisses. “I paid two gold for that replica!” 

“You paid _two gold_ for that?” Sokka asks, clapping his hands together. “Where’d you get _two gold_ as a kid, Katara? Huh?”

“Oh shut up! Where’s my _poster,_ huh? Did the seal-lions _eat it?”_ Katara demands.

Sokka blushes, and Zuko gives him a puzzled look. “Why would you want a poster with the mask on it?” 

“Uh,” Sokka says, and seeing her moment like a shark smelling blood, Katara chimes in. 

“Oh, it was a _full body_ rendition,” Katara says. “An athletic pose.” 

“What’s an athletic pose?” Zuko asks, and tries to strike his best guess at one. 

Katara shakes her head, and turns away from them, positioning her hips outwards and twisting to look over her shoulder. She puts her hands on the back of her neck.

“That’s not very athletic,” Zuko says. “That’s like, seduc—” 

“Where’s your little _book_?” Sokka asks desperately, bending over her wooden chest to dig around. “There’s this little artist book where they tell a story of the Blue Spirit with illustrations, they do a portrait without the mask--AH HA!” Sokka rips it out and tosses it to Zuko, sailing it over Katara’s head. 

“This has a song in it,” Zuko says, flipping open to a page at random. 

“Yeah, we can’t read music though, so we never really got the—”

“I can,” Zuko says absently. “I play the tsungee horn.” 

_“Blue Spirit, Blue Spirit, does whatever his spirit wants,_ ” Zuko sings under his breath. “ _Climbs a wall any size, fells soldiers the first try, look out, here comes the Blue Spirit._ ”

There’s three more verses to it.

“This is a bad song,” Zuko decides, and closes the booklet. “You both had horrible taste.”

Katara and Sokka look at each other and, seeing the generous out, take it. 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees. “Horrible taste. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You don’t know what you were thinking? _I_ don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, now that I’ve met the real thing—”

“Hey,” Zuko says, feeling kind of offended. “I actually _did_ all of that stuff.” 

Katara looks him over, in his thin water damaged silk tank, hair long and braided behind him. It’s even tied off in a bow. If she could say _delicate_ with her eyes, she’d be doing it. 

“Shut up,” Zuko says, and slides the mask on. “I don’t need a change of clothes, right? I mean, this is pretty unrecognizable as is.”

“You might want to leave your necklace,” Katara says.

“And cover your arms,” Sokka adds, brushing his fingers along the scales there. 

Zuko pulls the mask off. “Yeah, I meant, no one’s going to recognize me because I’m supposed to have died 400 years ago, and it doesn’t really matter if they do, because I’m a dragon?”

“Sleeves,” Sokka says again, pulling out some under-armor and passing it over to him. It’s Katara’s, because between the two of them hers is more likely to fit. 

Zuko shrugs, but pulls the under-armor on. It’s loose in the chest, but it makes up for the slightly too small shoulders. He’s made do with worse. 

“So how are we gonna do this?” Katara asks, looking to Sokka. 

“I assumed I would scale the side and then…” Zuko doesn’t finish the sentence, just flexes his fingers at them meaningfully. “Do you need to come?”

“What about the flare?” Katara asks. 

Sokka adds, “you shouldn’t firebend, just in case someone does escape. Are your swords on the ship?”

“Wait, why would it matter if I firebended?” Zuko asks. “They’d think it was a deserter, right?”

“No,” Sokka says, “all firebenders are added to a registry and tracked, along with the other benders.”

“Excluding me,” Katara says, and raises her hand.

“Excluding Katara,” Sokka confirms.

“So someone else would be blamed,” Zuko says, and frowns. “...yeah, my swords are on the ship. But this would be a lot easier if—”

“No! No fire! Fire _bad!_ ” Sokka says. “Katara, could you bend us on board? We’re not going to be able to do that climb, it’s too sheer.”

She nods. “But after that I should stop bending too. I’ll head for the flare, you and Zuko should split up and take each end of the ship.” 

***

The plan goes perfectly, right up until it doesn’t. Which means, immediately.

“Take off your necklace,” Katara says.

“No,” Zuko says. 

“We can’t leave until you take off your necklace,” Katara says.

“I guess we’re not leaving,” Zuko says.

She’s being more than a little weird about it. Sokka turns to her, arms crossed. “Why does he need to take it off?”

“Because it’s identifying in case one of them gets away,” she shoots back, heavy with implication. “Unless you’re willing to throw it out after the mission, Zuko.”

“Here,” Sokka sighs, approaching Zuko where he’s clutching the charms and glaring at Katara. He catches Zuko’s eyes. “Let me,” and he goes to remove it. 

Zuko steps backwards, dancing out of his reach. “No! I’ll do it. You almost— your heart—last time—” 

Hm. Okay. So they don’t have time to talk about what Sokka’s heart did while he was having his vision, or the fact that he _had_ a vision, so he doesn’t touch that. 

“Okay,” Sokka says, stepping back, palms up. 

“I’ll wear it on my upper arm,” Zuko tells Katara.

“Won’t it slip?” she asks.

“Fine!” Zuko says, and unclasps it, heading for the door. “I’ll wear it on my thigh. I’ll be back.”

“It won’t fit,” Sokka argues, grabbing Zuko’s arm. “Why don’t you just put it in your pocket?” 

“And let it _fall out?”_ Zuko asks. 

“This is absurd,” Katara says, squeezing the bridge of her nose.

“AH HA!” Sokka says, finger up. “Flip it around so that the charms are pressed into your neck! Nobody can see them that way, it’ll just be a necklace!”

Zuko flips it upside down, clasps it in front so that the charms press against the back of his neck. He twitches, like it’s uncomfortable, but nods grudgingly.

“Good? Can we go now? Are we done with our beauty routines?” Katara snips. 

Sokka wants to ask about the necklace. He wants to ask about the necklace _so badly_. 

There’s not time.

“Yep,” Sokka says. “I mean, unless you need some time— you look like you could use some beauty routine yourself—”

“Don’t make me kill you before we even get on board the ship,” Katara says.

“Go away so I can touch Zuko without you being weird,” Sokka tells her, swatting at her dismissively. He approaches Zuko, gloves off, and pulls his sleeves up as far as they’ll go. Palms aren’t nearly enough contact, not when Zuko’s used to tropical weather where Sokka’s usually shirtless and they can stick together from hip to neck on a whim.

“Better not touch him _weird,_ ” she threatens as she leaves. “You have five minutes.”

“Just shove them up my shirt,” Zuko says, and pulls his tank top out in the back. 

“Kinky,” Sokka jokes, and presses against him, hands sliding up his back to play with the scales along his shoulder blades. He tucks his face into the curve of Zuko’s neck, but doesn’t kiss him. Despite the necklace he’s been prickly and standoffish, no real resolution to their conflicts. 

Zuko shivers a little, and there’s the distinct sound of him chewing on Sokka’s hair. 

“Why do you do that?” Sokka asks. 

The sound stops.

“Do what?” Zuko asks, guiltily.

“Chew,” Sokka answers, and demonstrates, playfully gnawing on the necklace. 

Zuko shivers a lot this time, a groan catching in his throat. “Stop,” he says, and slides a hand in between Sokka’s mouth and the necklace. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” 

“I’m chewing,” Sokka says simply, but stops, instead kissing Zuko’s knuckles hopefully. He seems receptive to the physical affection, at least.

“...it’s a dragon thing,” Zuko says. “I think. I didn’t used to— it’s just… since then.” 

“Does it mean something?” Sokka asks, not letting himself be distracted. Zuko doesn’t move his hand away, so Sokka keeps his lips pressed against it. 

“It means I like you,” Zuko says, softly. “A lot.”

“Oh,” Sokka says, flushing, and then he chews on the spot he’d just kissed. _I like you a lot too._

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Zuko says, shoving at his face again. His voice sounds thick, like he’s actually going to. 

“It means that much?” Sokka muses, thinking back on how frequently Zuko chews on him, both in affection and frustration. He can even remember the first time Zuko bit him— in the middle of an argument, right after he’d said— 

Right after he’d said Zuko didn’t _like him._

Sokka’s heart flutters, and Katara shouts that their time is up. 

“I thought that you didn’t want to love me,” Sokka breathes, but Zuko’s already pulling away, heeding Katara’s call. 

“Yeah, well,” Zuko says, and grabs his shoulder. He twists him, just enough to press a quick kiss to Sokka’s lips. “I don’t usually get what I want.”

Then he slips away, out into the darkness.

***

After that, the mission really does go perfectly. 

Zuko’s truly impressive, swift and inhuman, swords moving silently. He scuttles along walls and flips along beams in the ceiling, working quickly and efficiently.

Sokka’s a lot less graceful but just as effective, taking out soldiers with his club and on one awesome occasion, a three with his boomerang in one throw. There’s no time to sound an alarm, no time to even register what’s happening. 

Katara makes it to the control room silent as Zuko, bone knives in hand. It’s easy to cut the line to the emergency flare, and even easier to take out the crew. She pulls the black scarf further over her nose and slides out with the shadows. 

“I’ll handle below decks,” Zuko whispers to Sokka. “Go check on your sister.”

Sokka nods and does, Katara melting out from a hallway and startling him. She raises an eyebrow at the spearpoint pressed against her neck, and Sokka gives her a face and lowers it.

***

Zuko allows himself a moment to feel regret for what he’s about to do— murder men and women in their beds— before getting to it.

It’s easy. It’s always so easy to kill people, and being a dragon has only made it easier. He used to get nauseous after every kill, but even when the Captain woke, begged, he doesn’t feel anything. Just tired, and a little sore around the shoulders from the work out. 

“Well done, Zuzu,” someone says, slow clapping. He whips around, swords meeting the neck of the assailant before he even registers what was spoken. 

There’s nobody there. 

***

“YOUR PUNISHMENT IS LIFTED,” Justice booms.

“What? Really?” Aang says, bouncing right out of his shackles in excitement. “Whoops,” he says, and tries to fit his hands and feet back into them. 

“AZULA HAS BROKEN HER PAROLE.” Justice booms. “AND YOUR CHARGE HAS NEED OF YOU. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET MY LENIENCY.”

“You’re the best!” Aang says, and bops across the floor on an air scooter. “I’ll make you proud!”

“I DOUBT IT,” Justice booms, quietly, and goes about his day.

***

“We’re going to the shrine,” Sokka tells Zuko somberly. Katara’s flipping through Fire Nation missives, face grim. 

“Let me know when you’ve gotten all you can out of the ship,” Zuko tells Katara. “I’ll help steer it into deeper waters. We can make it look like an ice collision. They won’t investigate this far South, if there’s no expectation of foul play.”

“I don’t have time to sort through all of it,” Katara says. “They have to have sacks in the kitchen, we’ll take one, put everything important looking in it. We need to get this away from the Tribe before someone notices.”

Zuko turns to Sokka. “Can you go yourself?”

He nods, and reaches for Katara. She meets him partway in a hug. “Be careful,” he says, and she snorts, pulling back. “And hug Zuko! He needs hugs.”

“I need _your_ hugs,” Zuko says, sounding like he’s proving a point before realizing how it sounds. He flushes, and storms over to Sokka.

Sokka’s heart twinges in his chest. That’s a pretty far cry from _I need a warm body,_ so he indulges him, squeezing Zuko so hard his feet lift off the ground a little. 

***

“So,” Katara says, and Zuko winces where they’re quickly gathering anything that looks like it could be important. He purposefully heads to the other side of the room, using his dao to lift a row of boxes filled with scrolls and stack them rapidly into a tower, sliding them into a sack to be looked at later. 

“SO,” Katara says again, louder. Zuko winces again, harder. 

This can’t be going anywhere good. 

“Sokka proposed to you?” she prompts, like he’s missed a line in a pre-written dialogue. Gods, Zuko wishes he had scripts of pre-written dialogue. Socializing would be _so much easier._

“Not...exactly,” Zuko says. “He put the necklace on me?” 

“Right,” Katara says, breaking open a safe with ice and a knife and then sweeping the contents into her bag, “and then he said…?”

“Well,” Zuko says, and fidgets with his swords a little. “I kind of— ran away, at that point? So I’m not really...sure.”

Katara stares at him blandly, hands still moving to collect things. 

“Bato absolved Sokka of his duty to me, and I was— upset, and then Sokka put the necklace on me, and I ran away.” Zuko runs that back through his head. Yep. That’s how it went.

“You’re wearing the necklace,” she points out. “You said yes to a proposal.” 

“I _am_ wearing the necklace,” Zuko confirms. 

“Why two charms?” she asks as they head belowdecks. She stops at the stairs and doesn’t descend. 

“He didn’t make this one,” Zuko says, and taps the top one. 

“So he copied it? I don’t think there’s anything important down there.” Katara pushes away and back towards the deck.

“No— he didn’t—” Zuko stares down the stairs. Stares. Stairs. Then he follows Katara. “He… I don’t know. I don’t _know._ He’s never seen this. I don’t understand…”

He thinks he has an idea, but he doesn’t want to say it out loud. It seems too— too much. It can’t be. He can’t face it, can’t think it fully in his own mind. Voicing it would cause too much damage. 

“I don’t know how he came up with the design,” Zuko says, firmly. “But he’s never seen this before. He’d set the first one poorly, and so I set the other one after I ran away. And then—” 

He waves broadly at the carnage covered deck.

Katara looks to Zuko as she begins bending water onto the deck and down the open door to the interior of the ship. “So if I told you, as Chief, to hold the ceremony tomorrow, would you?” 

“Ceremony?” Zuko asks, and then flushes. Right. Wedding. Ceremony.

His wedding ceremony with Hekka had been a private and largely improvisational affair. He’s pretty sure Hekka had lied about… a lot of it. He better have lied about a lot of it, if it’s something they were expected to do in front of _others._

“Would Sokka?” he asks, deflecting the question. He crosses his arms, leans against the iron siding. 

She raises an eyebrow. “You tell me. I’ve never known my brother to consider domesticity before.” 

Zuko drops his eyes, hunches his shoulders. “...I don’t know. I don’t know him that well.”

“And yet,” she says lightly, “you know him well enough to accept a proposal. What will you do when the fifty years are through? Will you divorce?” 

“Gods,” Zuko says, and tugs on the end of his braid. “I don’t think you know me very well either. It’s going to be his choice. I don’t _have_ to know him well to know I’ll spend most of his life with him. I don’t— my opinion is—”

He tilts his head back, considers the stars. 

“I’m not used to my opinion mattering very much,” he admits. “I don’t see why I should start now. If he wants me, he can have me. However that is, however long.”

“That’s beautiful,” Katara says, smiling. “And to think, we thought you were going to _eat_ him.” 

“Oh, I did,” Zuko says, and grins at her slyly. She slaps him with the edge of a water whip, and he laughs. 

“Consider,” she says mischievously, “that should I have no children, this makes _Trouble_ heir to the Tribe.” 

“Katara,” Zuko says. “Katara, I don’t make a habit of dictating women’s choices for their body, but you really have to have children.”

She laughs, and they go about sinking a warship.

***

“La,” Sokka says, kneeling in front of the pool. Any sign of their sacrifice is gone, the water is clear and unblemished. He touches his forehead to the frigid waters

“Forgive us the souls we send you today. Grant them passage to the spirit world, and allow me to atone for the disrespect of sending them without tribute.” 

The water creeps up the sides of his neck, around the back, icy fingers. Sokka’s eyes widen, breath shallow with fear. This isn’t how this _goes._

It pulls him under. 

***

“Princess,” he begs, kneeling. The grass is soft beneath his knees, the earth warm in the spirit cavern. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“You promised never to refuse me,” Yue says gently, hand on his cheek. 

“I promised to protect you first,” he says, placing his hand over hers. “Please. _Please._ ” She strokes away his tears with her fingers, pressing their foreheads together, sharing breath. 

“Princess Yue,” Iroh says, solemnly. “We are running out of time.”

“Don’t do this,” he begs. “Don’t make me watch you do this.”

“The world will not survive without the moon to balance her tides,” Iroh says gently. 

Yue takes the club from his belt, raises her arm back. “But I can spare you this much, Hakku.”

The club falls.

Sokka falls out of Hakku’s body as it falls to the ground, finds himself standing outside of it. It’s disorienting, weightless and untethered. 

This isn’t how these visions happen. He sees through Hekka’s eyes, and then he wakes up. But this person, Hakku, is unconscious, and yet Sokka is still witnessing what happens next. 

“Iroh,” Yue says, and walks towards him. He’s an elderly man with golden eyes, dressed in Fire Nation reds and the regalia of a high ranking man. He’s crying, openly. 

She kneels beside him, by the perfectly circular waters. There’s a white dead fish floating in the waters, a black one darting frantically around it.

His hands go to rest on her shoulders, trembling. He presses her slowly backwards into the water, and she allows herself to be pushed, face to the star studded night sky, a bloody hole where the moon had hung. Her hair floats around her, white and billowing as her robes.

“I’m scared,” she admits, and glances to Hakku’s body where it’s slumped in the grass, spared from witnessing her death. 

“You are brave,” Iroh tells her, voice breaking. Yue closes her eyes, dips her head back, and drowns. Iroh sobs as he holds her down through the instinctive thrashing. 

“YUE,” Sokka screams. He knew this was how she came to be, she’d told him as much. There’s something visceral about seeing it, though, and he shakes, falling to his knees. 

Iroh holds her down, water to his elbows, for what feels like eternity. Her fingers slacken on his wrists and sink below the surface, and even still, he holds her down. His sobs quiet as he gains control over himself, but his body still shakes, the medals on his shoulders tinkling.

Yue’s body brightens, infused with unnatural light, slipping between Iroh’s fingers and enveloping the cavern with it’s glow. Slowly, her body disappears, replaced by a ghostly silhouette before disappearing.

The moon returns to the sky, washing away the bloody hole and replacing it with color. 

Iroh meets Sokka’s eyes and says, “I’m sorry.” 

***

Sokka wakes to someone screaming his name. 

He’s wet, and cold, and someone is shaking him and pressing their hot mouth to his, breathing for him. It catches in his lungs and he lunges forward, hacking up brackish water, throat burning and eyes filled with stale tears. 

“La,” he gasps out, eventually. “Did _not_ like that.”

Zuko’s hands are on his face, trembling, and the trembling reminds him of Iroh’s hands on Yue’s shoulders. He scrambles away from Zuko and retches into the grass. While he’s occupied, he takes the time to wonder if _Iroh_ is a common name in the Fire Nation.

“Sokka,” Zuko says, and moves closer again, rubbing between his shoulder blades soothingly. His hand is warm, almost too warm, even through the layers of cloth.

“I’m fine,” Sokka rasps, wiping his mouth and reaching for his waterskin. He drinks from it liberally, wiping his mouth again, washing away the taste of ocean and bile. 

“Fine,” Zuko says, and gestures towards the vomit and the wet rock where Sokka had woken up. His jaw works like he’s having trouble talking, or swallowing his fire. 

“I told you,” Sokka says, “La wasn’t happy with me. She showed me _just_ how unhappy.” 

“Gotta,” Zuko bites out, and rises to his feet. “Fight the ocean. Be back. Later.”

“Zuko,” Sokka says, but his words are chased by a laugh and he reaches for him, dragging him back by the tie of his sash. Zuko plops down next to him and lets Sokka pull him against his chest. 

“I could,” Zuko says, into Sokka’s shirt. He gnaws on it between phrases. “Win this time. You don’t know.”

“I can guess,” Sokka says, nuzzling Zuko’s hair, taking a moment to breathe. 

“Don’t do that,” Zuko says.

“Do what?” Sokka asks. 

“Fucking—” and Zuko’s voice breaks, shoulders shaking. “Die. Don’t fucking _die._ ”

He could say that he’s sure La meant for Zuko to find him. That he’s not in any real danger, not with Yue on his side. That he thinks that the spirits have something planned for him, and he’s too valuable to kill.

He says none of those things, mainly because Zuko’s made it clear that he neither trusts nor likes the spirits. Partially because he recognizes where the demand is coming from. 

“Kay,” Sokka says. 

“I can’t do this again, just stay,” Zuko pleads. “Don’t leave me alone. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Okay,” Sokka says again, cradling Zuko’s face, nuzzling his nose and kissing at his eyelashes where tears are beading like pearls. “I won’t. I promise.” 

“You’re fucking stupid,” Zuko says. Then he kisses him, biting at his lips. 

Sokka kisses back, hand at the back of Zuko’s neck, slow and thorough. He can feel the bump of the two charms under the leather. He pulls back enough to breath, eyes closed, and asks, “What’s with the necklace? Where’d you get a second one that fast?” 

“I didn’t,” Zuko says, and wipes at his nose. He reaches to his neck, unclasps it, holds it gently in both palms so that they can see the charms. They’re close to identical, but one is clearly older, the carving well worn. “This one—” and he taps it with a claw. “Hekka gave me. I brought it when we left.”

“Hekka,” Sokka says softly, brows drawn. “Zuko,” he says. His voice is tentative, uncertainty and fear underneath. “I’ve been having dreams.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's a little intermission while ang3lba3 and I take a breather so that we can come back for the final arc without rushing the plot! Thanks for sticking with us! -Mello

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Trouble screams, hurtling down the ice and snow, eyes wide, mouth open with glee.

“Wh—” Katara says, twisting to her right. She’s cut off, thrown to her left, directly into a snowbank. For a moment, all she can see is snow and ice, and then she bends herself out, vision swimming as she staggers to her feet.

“You gotta steer with your knees, kid!” someone yells, “You almost killed that nice lady! It’s not fun if someone dies!”

“That’s not true,” Trouble says. “It’s _more_ fun? You’re really bad at having fun, Aang.”

“OH?” The stranger yells, and Katara finally gets a good look at him just as he shoves the heel of his palm at Trouble. Suddenly Trouble and the penguin she’s riding shoot into the air. 

“Spirits drown me if I’m not dreaming,” Katara swears, watching an air-nomad send himself and Trouble soaring over her head. 

And then the air nomad’s eyes catch hers, and they’re glowing brightly. He blinks. Katara blinks.

“You got a permit for that?” Katara asks, gesturing at his everything.

Then he disappears, the penguin spinning to a halt without it’s ghostly rider.

Trouble doesn’t notice at first, cackling maniacally, but when her penguin finally stops so does her laughter. 

“Aang?” she asks. 

“I think I spooked him,” Katara tells her, bending to offer a mittened hand and lift her out of the snow. Trouble’s immune to the cold, Katara’s come to realize, and her bare fingers wrap around Katara’s gloved ones. 

“Aang ain’t scared of nothing,” Trouble mutters, still glancing around. She looks worried. 

“Is Aang a spirit?” Katara asks, like these are normal questions you ask an eight year old. 

Well. An eight year old magic dragon. 

“Aang’s in _trouble_ is what _he_ is,” Trouble says, and her face has gone straight from worried to murderous. “AANG! GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!” She stomps her feet, snow puffing around her. 

Aang does not appear.

“I’LL— I’LL—” Trouble seems to be having trouble thinking of a threat. Katara is pretty sure this is out of character. “I”LL TANTRUM! RIGHT HERE! LIKE A BABY!” 

“That’s a punishment for me!” Katara protests, backing up several feet.

“I’LL MAKE THE NICE LADY UPSET!” Trouble screams. “AND IT’LL BE ALL YOUR FAULT!”

There’s a whoosh of warm air and when Katara’s finished blinking away the snow there’s a man hovering in front of her, hand on the back of his head and expression sheepish. He has a young face, round, and a tattoo of an arrow on his head that she bets goes all the way down his arms and legs. 

His ropey, muscular arms and legs, exposed to the frigid South Pole air by the loose orange and yellow robes that mark him as an air nomad. She’d met a group of them when she was a child, Southern nomads travelling to the Eastern temple. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I had to go get my permit.”

He reaches inside of his coat, pulls out a piece of paper, presenting it proudly to Katara.

She reads it.

“This just says ‘I do what I want’,” Katara says. 

“It’s my permit to do what I want!” Aang agrees. 

His dots have little hearts. 

Katara flushes, and laughs. “I’m not sure that I can accept this,” she says, looking at him slyly. “Did you get it signed by the Chief?” 

“Uhhhh,” Aang says, and snatches it, disappearing again. Within seconds, he’s reappeared, wearing a moustache made out of snow. He signs the paper with a flourish.

He dots those bits with EXTRA big hearts.

Katara bites her cheek and gives him her best attempt at a stern expression. “You the Chief?” 

“Yes,” Aang says, moustache wobbling. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me.”

“That’s embarrassing for me,” she sighs, pulling out her necklace. “All this time and I thought that _I_ was the Chief.” 

The moustache falls to the ground, shattering. Trouble, who has been vibrating with anticipation this entire time, claps and cheers.

“You— traitor!” Aang says, and tackles her into the snow. Trouble shrieks. “Tickles for traitors!”

Katara puts a hand on her hip. “You know, it’s pretty sexist of you to assume that the Chief is a man.” She bends some extra snow on top of them, watching how it phases right through Aang’s weird blue glowiness. Yet, he’s still able to grab handfuls and shove it down Trouble’s collar. 

“You’re right,” Aang says, still busy evading Trouble’s flailing claws by letting them pass right through him. “Though…”

He rolls off of Trouble, and waves his hands around. Ice and snow fly towards Katara’s face. 

Katara arches her brow dangerously, her own hand waving, and the flurry falls to the ground into a snowy heap. “Though?” 

Aang shrugs, whirls his hands again, and plops the ice and snow on his own head. It’s a perfect imitation of her hairstyle, down to frozen beads for the snow hair loopies. It wobbles dangerously when he tries to talk. 

“Though nothing! You’re very correct, honorable Chief, and I just can’t _believe_ that scoundrel lied to me when giving me the permit!”

Katara finally cracks, laughing.

Aang skips directly into Katara’s space, grinning huge, and takes her hands. He’s got _really_ pretty eyes, and his upper lip is soft and his cheekbones pink with excitement. 

Katara blinks and meets his face, flushing as she realizes she’s been staring at his mouth. Aang leans even closer. 

“You wanna go penguin sledding with me?!” 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, I do.” 


	15. Chapter 15

Despite the number of people involved in a council meeting, the circle isn’t even large enough to fill the entire hut. The fire dances with small cracks and hisses in the middle, bundles of aromatics tossed in by Kanna that fill the room with a thin, spiced smoke.

A bowl of water gets passed around. Everyone washes their hands, and then turn in unison towards Sokka and Katara, legs crossed beneath them. For a moment, Zuko doesn’t realize why he’s getting a look from Bato, who’s staring at him intently and ticking his head to the side.

Oh. He’s sitting with his legs folded under him in the Fire Nation way. Bato rolls his eyes as Zuko readjusts, ankles crossing as his knees press against Sokka and Kanna’s.

“Alright—” Sokka says, just as Katara says, “So—”

They both stop, glance at each other. Katara taps her necklace, pointedly, and Sokka flushes, rubbing the back of his neck.

_“So,_ ” Katara repeats, the corner of her mouth twisted up as she elbows Sokka gently. “We’re here to discuss the future of the treaty with the-- with _Zuko._ ”

“Who?” Kanna asks.

Zuko winces. Sokka had told him that his grandmother was… pretty upset. The sister of Jima. He hadn’t exactly been looking for a good time to talk with her so much as hoping they wouldn’t get stuck in the same room. And yet.

“Him,” Katara says, pointing at Zuko. Zuko waves awkwardly to the circle, shoulders to his ears.

“Oh, the beast,” Kanna says, and nods.

“The _dragon_ who has _protected us_ ,” Sokka says pointedly, hands on his knees as he peers around Zuko to glare at his grandmother. She glares right back, but doesn’t move her knee. Everyone in the circle is touching knees, Zuko notices. There’s a visible gap between his and Sokka’s knees.

Zuko does his best to disappear. It’s not a very good best.

“We’re off topic,” Katara says, firmly. “And I’m speaking.” This is aimed at her family, and the rest of the council don’t look discomforted by the public squabble in the least. How do they do it?

“You’ve all had time to read over the treaty,” Katara says. “And I have, myself. I will hear your wise council, and take it into account—”

“With all due respect,” Pakku says.

“Guests don’t typically speak to the council,” Katara interrupts him, icily.

Pakku ignores her, pushing on a little louder, “But I believe the future of your tribe’s survival is far more pressing than the… romance between your brother and his beast.”

“Guests don’t typically speak to the council,” Katara repeats. “Because they don’t have all the information, and make themselves sound stupid. Which is terrible hospitality of us, to not protect them from that. Gran-Gran, would you like to speak first?”

Kanna shakes her head and crosses her arms. “I’m abstaining out of bias.”

Zuko starts, staring at her with wide eyes. He hadn’t— he’s never actually seen a councillor abstain out of _bias._ He knew it was a thing they were supposed to do, _could_ do, but he’s never heard of it… being _done._ Bias is all the more reason to speak your mind, have your opinion heard.

Kanna keeps her eyes firmly closed, head tilted away from Zuko. He forces himself to look away, to stop intruding.

Katara inclines her head. “Ikka? You’re next.”

A woman Kanna’s age shifts, shoving her hands into the sleeves of her parka. She’s thinner than Kanna, with a longer face and hair more silver than white.

“Ikka,” the man beside her says softly. She ignores him, gathering herself.

“I am not so honorable as Kanna,” she finally sighs, “that I am willing to abstain. Tanno was my betrothed.”

_Agni_.

“Thank you for declaring your bias,” Katara says. “With that taken into account, how do you suggest we move forward?”

Ikka’s jaw works silently, her shoulder stiffening further and further.

“If I am not so honorable as Kanna,” she finally says, voice choked. She doesn’t look at Zuko while she speaks, staring at Katara directly. “Then this _dragon_ has no honor at all. We cannot trust him to hold to his end of a bargain. The treaty should have been dissolved long ago. I advise that we dissolve the treaty, and banish him from our lands.”

It’s not outside what Zuko expected from Jima’s family. From any of the sacrifices families, really. And if Jima had a fiance, then he _chose_ to leave her for Dragonpyre, which must burn her all the more.

It still hurts, viscerally. _No honor._ He remembers the arguments, the pleading. Begging for him to go home. To get help. Jima’s denials, binding him to his honor, to his word. Arriving a year early, his back empty, Jima clutched in his claws, set gently over the ice wall. Waiting to be given someone else to take home.

Katara hasn’t given him permission to speak. Even if she does, Zuko doesn’t think trying to defend himself with these memories will be productive, that he’ll be believed. In the end, this was the past. If he’s learned anything in these endless lifetimes, it’s that to survive, you have to look _forward._

And they— him and Sokka— _want_ the treaty broken. Don’t they?

“I hear you,” Katara says, a formality in the words, “and I recognize you.” She turns to another woman, hair shorn short, who straightens her spine.

“Mayana?” Katara asks. “Would you like to speak on the treaty?”

“I would, Chief,” Mayana says, and Zuko braces himself.

“I was Jima’s best friend, you know.” This is directed at Zuko. He meets her eyes out of respect even as it makes his skin crawl, and she smiles at him. It’s warm, and Zuko has to look away after a moment, shamefully to the ground, skin tight and hot.

“You may all have noticed I called Tanno Jima. That is because that is the name he preferred to go by. He didn’t tell many. But clearly—” Mayana waves at Zuko, and the lack of confusion on his face. “He told him. I don’t know that this treaty benefits us. But we should not break it because of old enmity. Jima was not unhappy.”

Zuko’s not allowed to speak, but he does nod in confirmation, eyes burning.

Bato goes next, after Katara calls on him, and he rolls his shoulders and directs his comments to her. “I think that the treaty is antiquated, and that it’s not useful in its current form.”

The treaty, Zuko reminds himself. They’re speaking of the _treaty,_ which is a _thing._ Bato doesn’t think poorly of him, he knows that. He digs his claws into his thighs to cover the shaking of his hands.

“Zuko is useful— in his current form, or otherwise.”

He winks at Zuko, and Zuko forces himself not to look away. He can’t do anything about the flush, or that Bato knows him well enough to reassure him. He forces his hands to relax. He doesn’t _see them after._ He keeps waiting for the resentment.

“I hear you,” Katara tells him. Her face is impassive, and Sokka’s squirming next to her, impatient. She ignores him. “Johast?”

“If I may,” Pakku interrupts, and Johast, who is sitting next to him, slouches just a bit to give him reverence. Katara’s mask breaks, lips pursing unhappily.

“If you may what?” Katara asks. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t actually a complete question.”

“If I may suggest the replacement of one treaty for another,” Pakku finishes airily, finger in the air. “It may allow for a more timely decision.”

“Would this be the same marriage contract you’ve been suggesting for the past several weeks?” Katara asks.

Pakku smiles, smug. Zuko’s decided that he’s going to light the bastard’s clothes on fire in the next opportunity that he gets.

“Pakku, you are interrupting the meeting you are a guest at. If you have something to say, you have to _actually_ say it.”

“But have you provided the details of the treaty to your council, _Chief?_ ”

Katara flushes, and Pakku’s the hen-cat with the mouse, lips curling in satisfaction.

“Yes,” Bato says. The rest of the circle twists to look at him. “I mean, I got most of them from you myself. We thought in the face of such an insulting offer a formal council was unnecessary. Especially when our Chief’s will aligns with our own.”

Everyone in the small circle knows that Bato’s lying. Not about getting the details of the treaty from Pakku, necessarily. They spent a _lot_ of time in the saunas together. Everyone waits for someone to break the silence, to ask for details or call him out.

Of course, the tribe is loyal to it’s Chief.

“If it will cease your insufferable chattering, we can talk about it at another time,” Katara says.

“May I remind you,” Pakku says somewhat more icily, “that you have no military, nearly no trade, and you’re one attack away from extinction? The North can provide you sanctuary, and all you need to do is stow your pride and think of the betterment of your—”

“But they have a sanctuary,” Zuko butts in, unable to stay quiet any longer. He can’t— stand this constant— he dedicated _four hundred years_ to that place, and they all act like it doesn’t exist. “And if they want me, they have a dragon, which is _better_ than a military. No offense to your military, I’m sure it’s very flammable. I mean, nice.”

Pakku turns an interesting shade of purple, opening his mouth to retort.

“It’s all in the treaty,” Sokka blurts, pulling one of the copies out of his sleeve, “which I would have _told_ you if you’d _heard_ me first, sister!”

“That’s Chief sister to you,” Katara says, and steals the copy, thwapping him on the arm with it. “Talk.”

“Part of the treaty with Zuko that we lost in the last raid explains that he’s _very_ beneficial to us! He’s meant to provide us with trade, protection from invaders, and sanctuary on his island in times of war.” Sokka opens the scroll and points to the passages he’d marked with one of Trouble’s crayons. Katara leans over Sokka’s shoulder to read it, Johast doing the same on his other side.

“Also, it isn’t _my_ island,” Zuko butts in. “It’s yours. It’s the Southern Water Tribe’s. You just let me use it, since most of the Water Tribe who lived on islands and in the sea retreated to the poles during the war.”

“Is it really?” Bato asks, and scoots out of his position in the circle to bend over it. “That document was so dense I must have missed it.”

“That’s preposterous!” Pakku exclaims, “the tribes have _always_ been at the poles!”

“You may be an ancient old dinosaur, but you’re not a four hundred year old dragon, Pakku,” Katara says. There’s no snap in her voice though, face alight as she reads the treaty. “You weren’t actually there for that.”

Kanna is visibly chewing on her lips, but Ikka speaks up, hand raised respectfully. “This is terribly convenient for us to just now learn, Chief. Why should we believe the b— the dragon,” she corrects, glancing at Zuko.

“Because he killed an entire tanker that threatened our safety, and Pakku refused to sacrifice so much as his coat for us,” Katara says bluntly.

There’s a burst of icy wind and Pakku jumps to his feet, seething.

“You’d break the circle!” Kanna snaps, standing. The rest of the council do as well, and Zuko scrambles up when he sees Sokka reach for his spear where it had been on the ground behind him.

No one had told him if you stood up it was a _fight declaration._ What if he’d tried to stretch his legs?!

“You broke our alliance the moment that you disrespected me,” Pakku snaps back. He points angrily at Katara with a mitten. “And this is your last chance to mend it, daughter of Hakoda.”

“Sokka,” Katara says. “You’ve been really weird lately, but is this true? Is this island capable of holding all of us?”

“Easily,” Sokka says, and then winces. “Well. We have a little mess to clean up, but after that, yeah. Zuko’s kept it ready for us this whole time, with a farm and smithery and everything we could need.”

“And there’s money to pay for replacing anything I—” Zuko swallows. “Anything I destroyed.”

_“Lots_ of money,” Sokka confirms.

“Obviously your last Chief didn’t trust this-- this _fire nation beast_ if he meant to keep these assets a secret.” Pakku says desperately.

“You’re right,” Bato says. “Hakoda didn’t trust Zuko. That’s why he sent me, to see if I would need to kill him. If it was even possible. And because he trusted me, he trusted me when I said that Zuko was worth protecting. We cut off trade routes voluntarily with Zuko decades ago to protect him from the Fire Nation. Now it’s his turn to repay the favor. When is the last time the North has protected us from anything?”

It stings, realizing that Bato had lied to him, had kept secrets. Just like Sokka had. He’d always known there were some. He didn’t think they included _killing him._

But they’d _just_ taken out a warship because his extra support to the Southern Tribe had been discovered almost immediately. And knowing that the war is headed by Fire Nation extremists acting in his name, he can understand Hakoda’s hesitancy. Especially because just before, Zuko had brought back Hakoda’s uncle, dead before his time.

Zuko realizes, abruptly, that Bato. Was never supposed to stay. It shakes him. Bato was supposed to go home early, to Kya and Hakoda. He was supposed to help raise Sokka and Katara. And he’d chosen _not to._

Bato’s looking at him. He knows him so well, knows that Zuko’s working through the implications. Everyone is already standing, and Bato gestures to the exit, an offer for Zuko to run away if he needs to.

“You will regret this,” Pakku threatens as Zuko moves around the edge of the hut, towards the exit. It’s meaningless words in the dull roar of Zuko’s thoughts.

Sokka catches his arm as he passes, expression questioning. Zuko blinks, sees Hekka, and pulls his arm away, eyes shut to block it out. It’s his imagination, all this talk of his past sacrifices dragging up old memories, Sokka’s voice scared in Yue’s cave as he says _I’ve been having dreams._

He opens his eyes again. Sokka, wolftail, staring at him with a familiar look of concern but an entirely different nose.

“Ocean,” Zuko rasps out, and then dives through the doorway.

***

“Wave goodbye, Trouble,” Katara says, watching the boat begin to pull away from the ice. Trouble, in dragon form and hunched around her shoulders, makes an angry growl. “Aw, don’t be like that. They’re gonna miss you. You don’t really wanna go back just to do chores, do you?”

Overhead, the moon hangs high in the sky. It’s dim, somehow, but it’s been so long since Katara’s seen it at all that she can’t help but be grateful for its presence at all. The wind is up again too, and the boat has no trouble beginning to make headway.

Trouble growls again. Chews on one of Katara’s hair loops. On board the deck, both Sokka and Zuko are waving at them, wide sweeping gestures.

“We’re gonna have so much fun, Trouble,” Aang’s voice whispers on the wind. Trouble quits growling so much. Aang was most of why she’d stayed, Katara doesn’t doubt that. Aang and his promises of penguin sledding.

She may be only a child, but Sokka was right when he’d asked her to stay, in case an attack comes while they’re preparing the island. At the very least she can get to them faster than a boat, should they need rescued.

Katara pets at Trouble’s scaly head, biting her lip as another unnaturally warm gust of wind caresses her cheek. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

***

Zuko doesn’t really talk to him on the way back to the island.

That’s fine. That’s— fine. They still touch, and Sokka’s got a lot to think about.

His head feels crowded, the dreams that used to just happen at night starting to bleed into the daytime. Sometimes he looks at Zuko, and he remembers something, and he can’t tell if it’s _his_ memory or _Hekka’s._

Zuko seems to be having— problems. Of some kind. Maybe similar ones.

It’s fine. They’re fine.

“She’s not staying with Katara,” Zuko says out of nowhere as they moor the boat at the island. “If you don’t want her, then— you don’t want her, but if she’ll choose me, then she has me.”

The first real thing Zuko’s said to him beyond ‘pass the salt’ and it’s so insulting that Sokka slams down his pack, turning to face him angrily.

“Who said anything about me not wanting her? If anyone didn’t want her, it would be _you!”_ Sokka snaps, pointing at him.

“What the—” Zuko says, face twisting up. “You literally tried to give her away to Katara less than a month ago! Or— maybe a month ago?”

His face goes sick, the way it does when he tries to remember his...weeks as a dragon.

“Anyways,” Zuko says, rallying.

Oh, no. Zuko’s not about to guilt him out of this one.

“I was trying to protect her! From-- from this,” Sokka says, waving between them. He’s starting to sweat already, furs too heavy in the balmy island breeze. “Us! We’re shit at this, Zuko, and I didn’t want her caught up in it. And now with this Hekka bullshit, she doesn’t need to see it.”

“That all sounds like a lot of words for ‘I gave our kid to Katara without talking to you, again’,” Zuko says.

“You’re being pedantic,” Sokka tells him. Zuko laughs.

“Big words,” he says, “but I’m not _wrong._ ”

“Neither am I!” Sokka shouts, throwing his hands up.

“YES YOU ARE!” Zuko roars. “You can’t do things without talking to me! You don’t make my choices anymore!”

Sokka opens his mouth to yell back, but stops. Closes it. Lowers his hands, brows furrowing. “Do I make your choices?” he asks, thinking about it. It feels wrong, but it doesn’t sound wrong. He’s used to being Chief, to being in charge. He’s never had to collaborate before, not really. Not even with Katara.

“I— I don’t know,” Zuko says, uncomfortably. “You just… there were a lot of secrets, before. And you couldn’t tell me things, and that was fine. But it— that kind of attitude, it extended to other things. And I encouraged it, because it’s— easier not to make choices, sometimes. But not with Trouble. She’s too important. She’s not me.”

“You’re important,” Sokka emphasizes, and for a moment he’s hit with the certainty that they’ve had this exact conversation before. When he talks, it’s not his voice anymore. “You’re the most important thing, princess.”

Zuko freezes.

“Hekka?” he asks, voice tremulous.

Sokka’s heart sinks, and he bends for his bag so that he doesn’t have to see Zuko’s disappointment. “Sorry,” he says, “I don’t know where that came from.” His heart is thundering, pulsing in his arms and head.

“I think you do,” Zuko says, but he doesn’t sound angry anymore. Just tired, and very, very sad. “It’s. We’re fine. We’ll figure this out. Get out of your parkas, I’m getting hot just looking at you.”

“When don’t you get hot just looking at me?” Sokka teases weakly. He looks at Zuko shyly, afraid of what he’ll see.

He doesn’t expect the way that Zuko’s breath catches, or the heat in his gaze. Sokka stills this time, letting go of the strap to his pack to stand.

“Want help with that?” Zuko asks, gesturing at his everything.

It’s Sokka’s turn to lose his breath. He bites his lip, fingers curling into fists, hidden by his mittens. “Who are you seeing right now, Zuko?”

Zuko flushes, hand dropping and curling into a fist by his side. “An asshole,” he snaps, and leaps off the ship, hitting the beach in a crouch.

“Stupid, sexy, confusing brat,” Sokka mutters under his breath as he swipes both his pack and the one that Zuko left onto his shoulders, climbing over the side.

He can’t believe Hekka got the good nicknames. Zuko deserves to be called a princess, the prissy little shit.

***

One thing Zuko hadn’t missed about Hekka: he was fucking _insufferable._

Except that’s a lie, because he had missed it about Hekka. He’d missed _everything_ about Hekka. And he’d— he’d known from the beginning, hadn’t he? How similar Sokka had been. He’d asked him to _stop_ once, unable to verbalize it entirely, just _you remind me of someone._

He was fucking stupid. He burned Hekka’s chore wheel, trying to set his spirit free, and then had thanked Agni that Hekka wasn’t around to see him lying to Sokka. Hurting him. Well _guess what._

It doesn’t matter if Sokka doesn’t entirely remember. Hekka would have been Hekka without his memories, too. Hekka— _was_ Hekka, without his memories. He just. Didn’t know Zuko anymore. Didn’t love him. Feared him.

“You’re going to break that,” Sokka says from the open door of the cabin. He’s leaning against it, shirtless, a stack of firewood in his arms. “Can I come in?”

Sokka says he loves him. He certainly doesn’t fear him.

“It’s your island,” Zuko says, and sets the cup down. He hadn’t even noticed the cracks forming, his hands clenching tighter and tighter. He stares at it. It’s full. He’d forgotten to drink.

“It’s our island,” Sokka corrects, dropping the firewood. Zuko recognizes it as the remains of one of the cow-moose enclosures, and he swallows sour spit.

He picks up his cup. Forces himself to drink. The water is tepid, slightly dusty.

“I can help,” he says again.

“No,” Sokka says. “This is my mess. You keep working on plans for the relocation.”

Zuko sighs, staring at the papers in front of him. They’re covered in writing, diagrams, parentheticals. There’s nothing he wants to do less than try to pick up a brush and write more. He’s already snapped three.

Sokka takes his cup from the alcove, the one he always picks, the one Zuko had instinctively left alone because it had been Hekka’s favorite, too. He leaves the one Trouble had made for herself, misshapen and new, the clay a bright orange.

Zuko puts his face in his hands, so he can’t see anything else. Sokka— doesn’t like him noticing these things. He can only handle cutting himself off for a few seconds, before he looks up again.

“‘Scuse me,” Sokka mumbles awkwardly, pouring himself water from the basin, drinking it and then tipping the rest over his face. He wipes it down the side of his neck, and Zuko can feel his heat, can smell the sweat where he’s up against his side.

The cottage really isn’t meant for privacy. Zuko makes a note on the map, hand shaking, that he’ll need to relocate it to make room for the town.

“Do you need lunch?” he asks, pushing his chair back enough for him to stand and put some distance between their bodies. It means brushing his arm against Sokka’s side as he goes. Sokka shivers, and Zuko pretends not to notice.

“La’s not mad at me anymore,” Sokka says senselessly.

Sokka and his stupid _spirits._ Any blooming desire to make nice with Sokka abruptly fades, replaced with familiar irritation.

“So do you want some fucking lunch or not?” Zuko asks, moving towards the kitchen. He just wanted to make him food, not be reminded of Sokka— drowning on dry land, of _I’ve been having dreams. In them—_

There’s silence. Zuko refuses to turn around and look at him.

“...No, thank you. I went fishing earlier. I have a couple of dozen clams drying out on the west bank, though, if you want to collect them for your lunch?” Sokka’s nearly whispering, a hesitancy in the words.

“I’m not hungry,” Zuko chokes out, blinking furiously at the kitchen counter. It’s fine that Sokka ate without him. It’s not a big deal. Why is he so upset? It’s almost impossible to be in the same room as him, anyways. “Thanks.”

“...Yeah,” Sokka says, and there’s the sound of the cup as he puts it back, a flash of skin as his arm passes Zuko’s periphery.

Zuko inhales through his nose, and it catches in an obvious sniffle. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He didn’t mean to—

Predictably, Sokka stills. His hand comes to rest on Zuko’s shoulder, and Zuko flinches against his will.

“Wait,” he says, just as Sokka pulls back with a sharp breath. He’s staring at the crack in the counter, filled in with a different clay, a deep green fork against the glossy brown. “We should talk about this.”

“Gotta be more specific, pal,” Sokka says wryly. Zuko doesn’t miss the way he trips over _pal,_ like he’d meant to say something else.

“Your—” Zuko says, and leans more heavily against the counter. “Identity crisis.”

There’s a rustle and creak as Sokka sits on the bed. His words come steadier now, less hesitancy. “I think you’re the one with the crisis, here.”

“Yeah, well, we’re a relationship in crisis,” Zuko says, biting back a smile at his own joke.

“You say that a lot,” Sokka points out. “Are we a relationship? Because you only act like you like me on accident, most times.” Zuko knows what’s coming before Sokka says it, pushing back from the counter.

“Or are you trying to like who I _could_ be?” Sokka asks bitterly.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Zuko says, voice catching in his throat. He rubs at his nose. “I’m not, I’m not handling this great. But you’re not either. I— you know that I was— even _before_ I knew, I was in love with you.”

“I _don’t_ know that,” Sokka says.

Zuko really doesn’t know how he could have been clearer.

“Yes you do,” Zuko argues. “You said that you thought I didn’t want to love you, and I told you I don’t get what I want. So there.”

Sokka laughs, and Zuko can’t tell if it’s meant to be mean. It sure feels that way, and he spins, eyes blurry and stinging, fire on his palms.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU,” Zuko yells.

Sokka catches his wrists, unafraid of the fire. They both know it’s not a threat, it’s just a reaction, something that his body does. He’s not afraid. At the end, Hekka had been _terrified._

That’s not helping. Zuko flexes his claws and the flames putter out. Slowly, Sokka loosens his grip, so that he’s more holding onto Zuko’s wrists then using them to keep him away.

“It’s like you don’t even hear yourself,” Sokka says, looking up at him. He’s let his little scruff grow out along the line of his jaw. “You think it makes me feel good to know that you don’t want this? And now that you know about the dreams, suddenly you hold me and act like we’re-- we’re more than what you’ve let us be this whole time?”

Zuko stares at him. He doesn’t even know how to address that. Angrily. Yeah. That’s how.

“I don’t want to see somebody I love die again,” Zuko says. “And that’s inevitable. I let you— you gave me this necklace, and I took it.”

“Tell me,” Sokka says stubbornly. “Tell me that you didn’t have suspicions when you took the necklace.”

“Suspicions that you were actually reincarnated Hekka, or suspicions that you’d lost your mind?” Zuko snaps.

Hurt flashes across Sokka’s eyes, bright and revealing, and he shakes Zuko’s wrists. “ _Tell me._ ”

“I didn’t know!” Zuko says.

“I didn’t ask if you knew!” Sokka’s voice is rising. “I asked if you had any _suspicions_.”

Zuko.

Zuko doesn’t know.

“I don’t know,” Zuko says. “You— you reminded me of him. But that would be… I didn’t believe he reincarnated. I thought. I thought he would stay. Stay with me.”

It has to be what Sokka was expecting to hear. He doesn’t look satisfied. Instead, he looks gutted, and he drops Zuko’s wrists, pushing them away.

“I fell in love with you,” Sokka says confidently. “Long before any of the dreams started. So. I guess we know where we’re at.”

“No!” Zuko says. “I don’t know where we’re at. I don’t know what’s _wrong._ You’re— I _know_ you’re not him. But you’re not _not_ him, and I don’t see why I have to act like you have nothing in common with _your own soul.”_

Sokka’s shoulders slump, defeated. Zuko’s crawled onto the bed in the midst of their argument, on his knees, and Sokka looks up at him helplessly.

“I don’t know when I fell in love with you,” Zuko says. “I can’t tell you that exactly. I didn’t want to. I _never_ want to, and I _always_ do. You reminding me of him made it harder, not easier.”

“I want to be happy,” Sokka says. “And I want you to be happy. I don’t know what else to say.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, relaxing a little now that he knows they’re on the same page. “How about, let’s have sex about our feelings? You can say that. You pretty much always say that. It’s so efficient.”

Sokka takes it the wrong way, of course, expression shuttering as he slides around Zuko to climb off of the bed.

“I’ve gotta get the list you made me completed before sundown,” he says, hand catching the doorframe on his way out. He pauses, swaying back and forth a little, like he can’t make up his mind about something.

“Sokka,” Zuko says, still hovering awkwardly around the empty space where he had been. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I hate complicated,” Sokka finally says. “Sex about our feelings isn’t complicated. But. I want to try and be better, okay? So maybe we can...be better too?”

“I hate when you do this,” Zuko mutters, and flops face first onto the bed.

Sokka seesaws back into the cabin. “Do what?” he asks suspiciously.

Zuko sighs, flips onto his back. He shouldn’t have said that. Sokka’s not going to take the truth well.

“Whenever I tried to be irresponsible, Hekka would be responsible. It’s gross. Your soul just really likes one upping me,” Zuko says to the ceiling.

Sokka’s jaw works, curiosity twisting into contempt. He doesn’t say anything when he leaves, and Zuko rolls onto his side, burying his face in Sokka’s pillow.

“Yep,” Zuko says. He sniffs, and then his nose clogs, as he starts crying. Again. “Fuck.”

***

He’s not Hekka. He’s _not_ Hekka. Maybe he used to be Hekka, or Hekka possessed him, or the spirits gave him Hekka’s memories.

But he’s Sokka. And he’s not Sokka because he’s scared of being Hekka, it’s the truth. He can feel it, he knows it deeply and completely.

That’s probably why Zuko’s comparisons hurt so much. Because he’s not Hekka, but Zuko sees Hekka in him, and he _wants_ to see him. He hasn’t been shy about sharing their epic romance or the loss he’s felt in the last four hundred years.

And it’s hard to look at Zuko and think, _it’s just like the old widowers._ Zuko doesn’t _look_ old. It’s not like when Gran-Gran would smile down at him and say he was just like his dad, tinged with sadness over her son being long gone fighting. It’s not like when he looks at Katara sometimes, and sees his mom in her.

He knows what he’s feeling is jealousy. And it’s stupid, because it’s jealousy over his past self. Probably. Probably his past self.

Either way, it’s stupid.

But why doesn’t _Sokka_ get an epic romance? Why does he have to grab onto the edge of the last one, always second place to someone else? He’s spent his whole life trying to prove he’s good enough, just as he is. Not a bender who could heal the sick, not a warrior old enough to go fight when it mattered.

Sokka kicks the last of the debris into the fire pit but doesn’t light it. If he lights it he has to supervise it to make sure that it doesn’t grow out of control, and Sokka has somewhere else to be.

He slams the door to the cabin open, heart painful in his chest. Zuko jumps, ink tipping onto the graph he’s working on, Sokka’s name on his tongue.

“I am _not_ him,” Sokka snaps, storming over to Zuko’s seat. He grabs the back of it and twists it, forcing Zuko to face him as he leans down. “I’m Sokka.”

“Kay?” Zuko says, wide eyed. He snakes a hand out to the table, pushing the unstained pages onto the floor, away from the spreading puddle of ink. Otherwise he stays still, wariness in his expression.

Sokka searches Zuko’s eyes, looking for answers. He doesn’t find any, only seeing gold and confusion. Their breaths mingle, Zuko’s hot on Sokka’s mouth.

“I want you,” he adds stubbornly. “Me. Not him. _I_ want you.”

“He’s dead,” Zuko agrees, and his face only twists a little as he says it. “And I wasn’t questioning that.”

He’s not magically better. The sentiment helps, and Sokka can see that Zuko’s trying. He still burns, though, tight in his chest, stinging and painful.

“Should I have been— were _you_ questioning it?” Zuko asks, and his eyes widen, shocked.

“Never,” Sokka answers. “I told you already, I knew before. But I don’t know what you think, and I-- I want you, okay? I want--” he doesn’t know what he wants, exactly. He feels a little embarrassed to be throwing it around so much, sounds spoiled, like a ill behaved child.

“The treaty doesn’t work like— you’re not obligated to be with me, anymore,” Zuko says. “And I’m not...obligated to be with you. But I said fifty years, and I meant it. Even without—”

They both know he means Hekka. Sokka winces, angry.

“--the treaty,” Zuko says, frowning up at him, searching his face. “I don’t. I don’t know why we’re fighting. Unless you want me, but you don’t… want to want me. I can— understand that. And I won’t. Push you.”

“We’re fighting because I fucked up, and then you realized I was your long lost love and now you’re trying to make it work anyways,” Sokka says, refusing to entertain the idea of _not_ being with Zuko.

“So we’re fighting because I’m trying to give you what you want?” Zuko asks, exasperated. “Sokka. This is stupid.”

It really is. Sokka slumps forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“It’s been a weird year, huh?” Zuko asks, laughing a little. He raises his hands to thread together behind Sokka’s neck.

“I don’t think we can fix this with a conversation,” Sokka admits. He kisses Zuko’s forehead, then his cheekbone.

“For the record, this was my idea first, and it was a great one,” Zuko says, and then kisses Sokka on the mouth.

The sharp, angry heat is still pressing against his ribs. Something is unfulfilled, and Sokka still feels like screaming.

Instead he kisses back harshly, trying to push everything he can’t articulate into it. He only succeeds in pushing the chair a bit across the floor. There’s a ripping sound, as it catches on some papers.

Zuko pulls back with a gasp and searches Sokka’s eyes, hesitant. Slowly, he opens his legs, pulling Sokka towards him with the hands behind his neck.

He’s waiting for rejection. Sokka knows it, and he doesn’t think about how he knows it-- he’s been with Zuko for a year, it doesn’t always have to be something _more._

_Zuko grabbing at the end of his braid, using it to tug just gently, pulling him forward, wariness in his eyes—_

NO.

Sokka shoves at the chair, tipping Zuko off of it. He catches him before he can hit the ground and tosses him onto the bed, scrambling after him, frantically trying to replace the memory with something else, something _now._

“Woah—” Zuko says, but he’s laughing, sliding his hands up under Sokka’s shirt. “Eager, huh? I’m not going anywhere, Sokka, slow down.”

“No,” Sokka says, gripping Zuko’s shirt at the bottom and dragging it up and over his head. Zuko pulls his hands away, puts his arms up to get it the rest of the way off. “You’re not the boss of me,” he adds, trying to lighten his own voice to match.

“Maybe I should be,” Zuko quips, tossing his shirt off the bed. “I have all the best ideas.”

“This was _my_ idea first!” Sokka argues. The discomfort of the memory is fading, replaced with Zuko’s twinkling eyes and the sharp peek of a fang.

“You sound like you’re having some strong feelings about that,” Zuko says, faux sympathetically. “Wanna have sex about them?”

“I’ll _sex you,”_ Sokka threatens.

“Oh no, anything but _sexing me,”_ Zuko cackles, hands going to Sokka’s shirt, tugging it upwards insistently.

“You’re being so convincing,” Sokka says, pulling his tunic over his head and pushing down his pants immediately after. He catches Zuko’s eyes as they land on his erection, pupils black and round.

That’s-- flattering. Good. Good feelings, in his chest. He likes that, wants to see more of it.

“You don’t want me to sex you, right?” Sokka teases, stroking himself languidly where he’s kneeling over Zuko’s hips.

“Perish the thought,” Zuko says, and then surges up, knocking Sokka on to his back, hands pressing his shoulders against the mattress. Sokka’s reminded of how much stronger Zuko is than him, and it’s satisfying as much as it’s exhilarating. “Lose my virginity? Like this?”

Zuko puts his mouth on Sokka’s neck, and then just licks him. It’s kind of sexy, but it’s also just a very long and wet lick. And then it goes into his ear.

“WUH,” Sokka yells, shoving at Zuko, but he won’t budge. He laughs directly into his ear and Sokka tries to cringe away.

“Be gentle! It’s my first time!” Zuko pleads.

“IT IS NOT,” Sokka yells back, and _“Oh, you can’t despoil the virgin, Hekka, what would the elders say?” Hekka grins and slides his hand further up Zuko’s thigh, satisfied with the way Zuko’s pupils widen._

_“They’d say congratulations, if they could see you.”_

“FUCK,” Sokka yells, and Zuko must hear something in his voice and lets up enough that Sokka can roll away, head in his hands. “Fuck, _fuck, fuck!”_

“Sokka?” Zuko asks. The joy is gone from his voice, the teasing and the laughter, like it had never been. There’s a shift in the mattress, like he’s going to reach out and touch Sokka. He doesn’t.

No, no, no way. Not happening. He’s not going to let this get ruined, too.

“C’mere,” Sokka rumbles, rolling over and reaching for Zuko with both hands, gripping his ribs to drag their bodies together.

“We can stop,” Zuko says, pressing their foreheads together.

“Who’s the virgin, here?” Sokka jokes, sliding his palms down his sides, over his hips. He’s breathing heavily, shoving down the anger and locking it away. He’ll have to figure something out sooner rather than later about these stupid waking dreams, but he’s not about to let them keep getting in the way.

“Ah, right,” Zuko says, and presses a palm to Sokka’s stomach, thumb stroking the skin. He widens his eyes. “What do you want me to do? It’s just all so _new,_ Sokka.”

That’s. Distracting.

Very distracting.

“Like, what even is this?” Zuko says, and wraps his hand around Sokka’s erection, corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“Oh my god,” Soka groans, hips bucking up, “that’s not sexy at all you monster.”

“That hurt my feelings,” Zuko says, burying his face into Sokka’s neck, laughing. “I’m a dragon, not a monster. We should have sex about these feelings, that I’m having—”

Sokka shoves his hand down Zuko’s pants in revenge, gripping him tightly, fingers pressing carelessly against the sharp scales at the base.

Zuko’s hand starts to heat. Not too intensely, not more than it would when he’d give _a massage, making sure to move Hekka’s braids out of the way first._

“HNNG,” Sokka says, “neat trick for a--a virgin--” he forces out, focusing on Zuko’s hand on his cock and trying to ground himself in the moment. It’s a very good moment.

“I’m a natural,” Zuko snorts. He scrapes his teeth over Sokka’s throat, very lightly, just the press of them.

“Did you ever--” Sokka starts, and once the thought is there he can’t let it go. He should let it go. “-- want you to. Me. Do me. Fuck me,” Sokka decides, knowing that he never did with Hekka.

Zuko’s hips stutter in his hand, and he bites down a little. Sokka hisses, because it’s unpleasant and he doesn’t think he likes it, trying to get away.

With a visible noise of effort Zuko unlatches his jaw. “Ssssorry, I—” he’s flushed, twists upwards, shoves the end of Sokka’s wolftail in his mouth.

Sokka rubs at his neck as Zuko chews on his hair, thrumming in anticipation. Yes, this is what he wants. He wants something with Zuko that’s just theirs, a memory that belongs to them.

“Got excited,” Zuko says, finally letting go of his hair.

Heat rushes through him, satisfaction curling his toes, and Sokka grips Zuko by the hips and flips them. He straddles Zuko’s waist and grins. “Yeah?”

“I talons,” Zuko says, displaying his hands. They do indeed end in sharp little talon-claw-things. It’s never been a problem, before.

“You’re doing that thing with your words,” Sokka says breathlessly.

“Talking?” Zuko says, and arches his eyebrow.

“Badly,” Sokka says smugly, digging for the tin of slick in the pillows. Zuko loses his words when he’s overwhelmed, and it’s deeply satisfying to know that Sokka can affect him so viscerally.

“You’re bad,” Zuko mutters. It’s somewhere around the vicinity of Sokka’s nipple, with him leaning over him like this.

Another shiver, and Sokka shoves two fingers inside of himself with a wince. “The worst,” he agrees, adjusting to the feeling of something inside of him for the first time in a very, very long time.

“No,” Zuko disagrees, which is stupid. Then he wraps his hand around Sokka’s cock, which is _extremely intelligent._ He places the other at Sokka’s hip, steadying him effortlessly.

“Okay,” Sokka says, high and breathy. “Whatever you say, okay, okay.” The hand on him distracts him enough that he’s able to push his fingers in all the way, and he bears back onto them, eyes closed in concentration. Zuko’s other hand holds him up, making sure he doesn’t overbalance.

“Okay?” Zuko asks. He’s laughing again.

That focuses Sokka. Sokka opens his eyes just enough to narrow them at Zuko. “Hush. I don’t do this often,” he admits, and while the chuckles die the smile stays, fond and soft on Zuko’s face.

“I gathered that,” Zuko tells him, stroking his side. It’s nice. There’s a trust in the movement, and Sokka leans into it, pulling his fingers out and gripping Zuko’s wrist. “I’m just happy.”

Oh. Sokka swallows. “Good.” He shifts, leaning down to catch Zuko’s mouth, opening up to him, kissing him deep. They kiss again, and again, and then some more, every time that one of them starts to pull away the other one catching a lip with their teeth, or sighing in a way that beckons.

Zuko gets his hand between their bodies, wrapping around Sokka again, and that shocks Sokka out of the kiss. He’s been rocking gently on top of Zuko, breathing loud, and when Zuko’s fist slides over him he has to dig his hands into the blankets and bite his lip.

“Where’s the—” Zuko starts, but Sokka’s already scrambling for the tin, knocking it onto Zuko’s stomach. Zuko twists it open again, covers his hand. Then he puts it on _Sokka’s dick._

“What--” Sokka gasps, shuddering into Zuko’s hand and then jerking away.

“Oh. I just— thought it’d be better for you?” Zuko asks, pulling his hand back apologetically.

“Don’t think,” Sokka says, scooping too much into his hand and reaching between them to coat Zuko’s dick. It’s hot in his hand, hotter than it should be, and Sokka strokes him harshly a few times in retribution.

“I know we’ve had this discussion before, but you _definitely_ can’t shoot fire out of this thing, right?”

Zuko snaps his teeth at Sokka, moving underneath him frantically.

“Please,” Zuko gasps, pushing into his hand. Sokka nods, kneeling, and lowers himself slowly.

It’s too hot, and too hard, and Sokka hisses and shifts back up. Zuko whines and throws back his head, trembling with the effort of staying still.

“Calm down,” Sokka rasps, stroking Zuko as best as he can at this angle, shallow little pulls.

Zuko reaches a hand up to the headboard, and then digs his claws into it. The wood makes an audible crack. “I’m calm,” Zuko grits out, sparks chasing the words.

“The picture of it,” Sokka says drily before trying again. This time he goes even slower, eyes training on Zuko’s face, loosening with desire at the way Zuko lights up beneath him at so little contact.

“This good?” Sokka finds himself asking, barely anything inside of him.

“Noooooo,” Zuko hisses out sarcastically.

“Oh, well,” Sokka pulls back up, “if that--”

“No, please!” Zuko says, starting to sit upright, before forcing himself back down. The headboard creaks concerningly. “It’s good. Yes.”

Sokka grins, carefully balancing so that he can push back down with only one hand, the other sliding along the side of Zuko’s neck. Zuko nuzzles against his palm, breath hot and fangs catching at the skin.

He manages another few moments before he has to stop again, breathing heavily. “How do you make this look so easy?” Sokka asks, stroking Zuko’s jaw with his thumb.

Zuko pulls his hand out of the headboard, and sets it on Sokka’s side, helping take more of his weight. That does help, actually.

“Practice,” Zuko says, and smiles.

“Mm, you are a pro at being on your back,” Sokka teases, and catches his lip between his teeth as they align in just the right way for him to bottom out. “Oh, _ohhhkayyy_.”

Zuko doesn’t laugh at him this time, fangs digging into the fat of Sokka’s palm, eyes squeezed closed. His talons press into Sokka’s skin a little bit, but his hands stay gentle. His entire body is very still underneath Sokka’s.

They wait together, the moment between anticipation and desperation stretching. Finally, Sokka’s thighs relax, and he presses his palm more firmly against Zuko’s mouth.

Zuko’s eyes open, and he stares at him, silent, lips parting for him.

Yeah. This is what he wanted. He presses the heel of his hand between Zuko’s lips, giving him something of Sokka’s to bite down on. “I’m gonna move,” Sokka warns him.

Zuko doesn’t bite, just lets his mouth open further, a quiet whimper as his fingers flex.

Sokka moves, carefully, into what feels good while flinching away from what doesn’t. Zuko’s good the whole time, every part of him still except for his hands, which are flexing and pressing against Sokka’s sweaty skin.

“Good,” Sokka praises, finding an angle that _really_ works and leaning into it. “That’s, you’re doing,” he adds, breathless.

Zuko’s hips twitch, before he stills them again.

Spirits, but Zuko’s willpower is so much stronger than his. There’s no way that Sokka would be able to maintain this much control, and he moans and bows forward, rocking more insistently.

Of course, Sokka probably wouldn’t start crying a little. Which. Is happening.

“Zuko?” he asks.

“Hrrghnh,” Zuko says, into Sokka’s hand.

Sokka snatches it away, leaning back to catch his balance and in the process, more heavily onto Zuko’s cock.

_“Fuck,”_ Zuko says, eyes snapping open. He takes a deep breath, head tilted away from Sokka, and breathes fire at the ceiling.

It’s hot, and Sokka can’t stop focusing on the way that heat is spreading inside of him, focusing on a point that’s growing more and more intense. He grits his teeth and stills, shivering. “Zuko?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Zuko says in a rush. Another tear slips out of his eye, glittering as it runs down the scales on his cheek. “It’s a lot.”

“No,” Sokka says quickly, lifting up too fast and hissing at the drag. His arms tremble but hold, and Sokka presses his face into Zuko’s belly to angle his ass up and away.

“No _you,”_ Zuko growls, but helps Sokka up.

He wants Zuko, but not like this. Not pushing him past his comfort level, or his-- senses. Level. The dragon boundaries, or whatever.

“Sokka,” Zuko whines as Sokka crawls over him. “Why.”

“ _You_ why,” Sokka says, Zuko’s cock snug against the curve of his ass as he kisses Zuko’s mouth.

“Hate _me,_ ” Zuko groans into the kiss. Then he pushes Sokka away. “I’m fine.”

“Nnhhhn,” Sokka disagrees, stroking aside Zuko’s sweaty hair where it’s plastered against his face. He’s catching his breath, the intensity coming down. He tries again, wetting his lips. “Uh-uh. You weren’t.” His thumb catches another tear as it slips down his face.

“I was!” Zuko insists. “I am! That’s not— I’m crying at everything, this is the _best_ thing I’ve cried about all week.”

Sokka scowls, because that doesn’t make it close to better. “Is this good crying or bad crying?” He demands, letting his weight settle on top of Zuko.

“It’s sex crying?” Zuko tries, like that clears anything up. “Yes.”

“Good sex crying,” Sokka says, wise to Zuko’s tricks, “or _bad_ sex crying?”

“Lots of— sex crying,” Zuko says. He moves one hand off of Sokka, rubs at his eyes. “Good. I think. Can’t we just go back to it?”

Sokka leans up on his elbow and watches Zuko, trying to find answers in his face. All he sees is a blush hidden by ruby scales, and he waits for Zuko to clarify in the absence of telepathy.

“I want to,” Zuko says. “I couldn’t— your hand in my mouth. I usually… fire… when it’s a lot. But my hands...”

Oh. “Oh, well,” Sokka says dumbly, eyes wide. He knows that. “That… was me. My bad. Whoopsies.” He feels more than a little stupid.

“I didn’t— I—” Zuko says, and then makes a small noise of frustration and grabs Sokka’s hand. He pushes it over his mouth again, glaring up at Sokka wetly. His voice is muffled when he speaks again. “It wasn’t a complaint.”

Sokka tries to pull his hand away. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

“This _conversation_ is _painful,_ ” Zuko says, and flops outwards with Sokka’s hand dramatically. “I like the sex can we have the sex it was good I would have bitten your hand off if it _wasn’t_ because I’m a _dragon_ who can _do that.”_

When he’s done speaking he puts Sokka’s hand back.

Hm. Sokka squeezes Zuko’s cheeks a little, tightening his grip over his mouth and jaw. He’s only kind of paying attention, thinking deeply.

Zuko whimpers and goes limp.

_Hmm._ Sokka prods at himself, trying to drift off and trigger any-- whatever. Visions. Dreams? His hand goes lax, slipping off Zuko’s face.

“You’re so fucking mean to me,” Zuko groans.

“You like it,” Sokka guesses.

“I— whatever,” Zuko says, flushing.

Ohhh. Sokka’s a lot more present, now, and he leers down at Zuko. “You _like it,_ ” he says again, this time with meaning. He finger-walks his hand back towards Zuko’s jaw.

Zuko glares at him. Then he opens his mouth, twisting to try and slip Sokka’s fingers inside.

Sokka thrills, and almost asks. He stops himself before he can, knowing a shipwreck when he sees it, instead pressing two fingers against the top of Zuko’s tongue.

Zuko’s eyes go hazy and he wiggles his hips insistently, cock bumping hot and hard against Sokka’s hip.

“I’ve got you,” Sokka soothes, shifting back onto his knees, stretched with his fingers in Zuko’s mouth and his other hand trying to guide him back in.

Zuko lets go of him with one hand, uses the other to prop himself up on his elbow. He moves his head forward, stomach crunching to keep Sokka from straining.

Zuko meets his eyes, and just as Sokka slides back down onto him he sucks at Sokka’s fingers.

“Hnng!” Sokka says angrily, and then, bottoming out as he comes with a violent twitch, “ _brat!”_

Zuko’s eyes cross as Sokka squeezes around him, making a loud, shocked choking noise. His hand tightens on Sokka’s hip and he slams upwards, once, twice. He spits Sokka’s fingers out, catching his lips in his teeth as his face glows gold.

It feels like Sokka comes again as Zuko slams up into him, the heat explosive, rushing through him in waves that leave him seeing stars.

“Ohhhhh hhnnngggg whaaaaaat,” Sokka moans stupidly, thighs tightening and relaxing in uncontrollable waves.

Zuko takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and then falls backwards, staring at the ceiling. “Sorry,” he rasps out.

“Blurg,” Sokka says, falling on top of him. He’s still shuddering, violent little twitches.

Zuko drags a blanket over them, tucking it around Sokka, pressing him close to his chest. Then he wraps both his arms around him, and hugs.

Sokka settles as heavily over Zuko as he can, crushing him with a return hug.

“Sorry,” Zuko repeats. It comes out small.

“I love you,” Sokka answers.

Zuko laughs. “Sor—”

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” Sokka says, and bites the nearest part of Zuko he can reach.

“Sokka,” Zuko moans. Sokka lets him go, satisfied. “... I love you too.”

“Oh,” Sokka says, blinking rapidly. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, and presses his face into the top of Sokka’s head. His arms squeeze. “Yeah.”

“Oh, good!” Yue says. Sokka shrieks, and Zuko stiffens. “You’re awake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanart by mello of hekka](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/post/626409703138836480/zuko-where-are-your-clothes-hekka-im-bathing#notes) :3


	16. Chapter 16

Hakku is going to get her into trouble. 

It’s not for any immoral reasons. He’s incredibly handsome and charming, and the few times he’s had to physically move her to protect against assassination, she’d gotten a front row grope to how absolutely _stacked_ he is.

That’s not the reason he’s going to get her into trouble. This is the North Pole— Yue is _surrounded_ by incredibly handsome, charming, buff men. She knows how to control herself.

“Stop it,” she hisses. Hakku’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge her. As soon as she’s satisfied that he’s going to behave she turns away. 

Just in time for him to cross his eyes at her, mittened hand mimicking talking at his side, where only she can see it. It’s perfectly on beat with Master Pakku’s monologue, and she bites her tongue in an attempt to maintain her composure. 

She takes a sip of water, letting it sit on her tongue as she takes deep, steadying breaths through her nose. Hakku sticks his arms out at his sides, wiggles them like a hencat’s wings. 

The laugh breaks out of her, inelegant and loud, more snort than giggle. Water shoots out of her nose as she hacks, shoulders shaking. Hakku rushes to her side, patting her between the shoulderblades firmly. 

“Princess Yue, are you alright?”

Yue gives into the temptation to jab her elbow back into his ribs. He doesn’t even give her the satisfaction of pretending it hurts, merely smiling down at her benignly. Slowly, he crosses his eyes. 

“I’M FINE!” she yells, directly into Hakku’s face. Their heads are ducked together from where she’d been hunched over and coughing, and she’s the only one who can see him. Of course he knows this, planned it out this way, the devious little prune-urchin.

“Do you need to retire for the night?” Master Pakku asks. She can feel him preparing a rant on her _delicate constitution_. 

Hakku wiggles his eyebrows at her. She elbows him again, a sharp _this wasn’t a favor and I didn’t ask for it,_ before turning to Master Pakku. 

“Perhaps I should,” she says, _delicately_ , and allows Hakku to pull out her chair for her. Now that he’s visible by the rest of the room, Hakku’s a perfect bodyguard, not a hair out of place. 

“Goodnight, Princess,” her father says as she walks past him. His eyes are soft, catching her hand to press a kiss to her glove.

“Goodnight, Father,” Yue says, and presses a kiss of her own to his forehead. 

When they’re alone in the hallway, Hakku leans over and says, “you’ve got some spit on your chin.” 

Yue smiles, viciously. “Oh, _do_ I?” she asks, and then flicks her fingers. The spit flies through the air and onto Hakku’s chin. “Thanks for telling me.”

Hakku’s nose wrinkles, and he wipes it off with the back of his hand, wiggling and whining. “EW! That’s so gross!” 

“There’s better ways to swap spit,” she agrees, and wiggles an eyebrow at him. 

Hakku doesn’t take the bait. He never does. Despite being a trickster and a childish fiend, he’s not immoral. He knows that she’s betrothed, and he’ll never let her tease him into anything that they’ll regret. 

He’s her best friend, and the best friend she could ask for. She kind of hates that about him, some days.

“What was so important you had to get me out of there?” she asks, spinning to walk backwards, so she can face him as she talks. He usually walks a step or two behind her, but she hates talking to the empty hallway. 

“It’s a full moon,” he says simply, and shrugs. Despite her preference for facing him, Hakku still gets uncomfortable with it. He looks out the giant stone windows as they walk, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“...it is,” Yue agrees. It squeezes her heart in her chest, to know that he just — knew how unhappy she was, trapped at the table, unable to move the way her blood screams for her to. She spins around, where her flush won’t be visible. “Want to spar?”

Hakku hesitates. The hesitations have gotten longer the closer she gets to the wedding. 

“Let me clarify,” she says smoothly, spinning back around, grinning. “Let’s spar, Hakku.” 

His lip twitches and he bows his head, beads falling in front of his face. He has the white ones that mean he’s betrothed, as well. Not to her, of course. She’s a _princess._

Yue swallows down the bitterness as he answers, “of course, princess.” 

They have their duties, and it means they can’t have each other. But they can have _this,_ for now. 

***

“WHAT,” Zuko shrieks. 

“WHY,” Sokka yells. 

“WHO ARE YOU?!” Zuko screams, pulling the blankets further over Sokka’s shoulders.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?” Sokka hollers, subtly lifting off of Zuko where he’s still. Inside. Of him. 

“I’m baaaack,” Yue sings, and flops on the bed beside them. She props herself up on an elbow, chin cradled in her palm. “Did you miss me, Sokka?”

She reaches out to boop Sokka’s nose with her fingertip.

“I am naked,” Sokka tells her, holding aggressive eye contact. “I have been….naked.” 

“Are you the moon?” Zuko asks. “Are you actually the— from the _fucking sky?”_

Yue blinks at him and grins, blue lips pulled over bright teeth. “We don’t do much fucking in the sky, hate to say. But, in a sense? They _did_ fuck me over.” 

“It’s too— time of day for this,” Zuko moans, putting his hands over his eyes and pressing down hard.

Sokka sits up, revealing their… everything, really, and Zuko screeches and drags him back down with inhuman strength. There’s a disgusting and unmistakable squelching sound. 

“No!” Zuko yells. 

“Oh, you’re THAT kind of awake,” Yue says. 

“So you didn’t… see anything?” Sokka asks, muffled from where Zuko’s clutching his face to his chest. 

“Not anything I haven’t seen before,” Yue says, and drags a finger through the top of Sokka’s hair, wetting it where she touches. “Calm down. I need to talk to you two.”

Zuko’s heart is pounding so rapidly against Sokka’s face that Sokka worries he’s going to start hyperventilating soon. He’s still staring at Yue with wide-eyed awe. 

Yue drags herself to a cross legged position, resting her hands on her knees. Her robes and hair float gently around her, caught in an invisible tide. 

“I mean, you’ve met Aang?” Sokka says to Zuko, pushing against his hands impatiently so that he’ll let him go. He doesn’t. 

“Not— not like _this,”_ Zuko hisses. 

“How about I close my eyes for thirty seconds?” Yue offers generously. “I remember what being a Princess was like. I gave you quite a fright, huh, Zuko?”

Sokka cackles against Zuko’s chest. “He _is_ a princess isn’t he?” 

“I— I—” Zuko splutters.

“Thirty, twenty-nine,” Yue starts. Her hands cover her eyes, comical in their translucence. 

Zuko shoves Sokka off of him unceremoniously, bunching the covers around his crotch and ripping a pillow case off to wrap around his shoulders. His hair is matted.

“The cabin is like twenty feet,” Sokka says, sitting up and moving the two paces to their chest of clothes. He steps into some pants while Yue’s still in the 20’s, eyeing the destroyed bedding. 

Zuko is pulling off more pillow cases and draping them around his torso. “I didn’t plan for this! Who plans for this!” he panics, loudly.

Sokka launches a robe at Zuko and snatches his hairbrush off of the table. The bed is-- well, it’s been used, all right. He pulls out two of the kitchen chairs and points to the kettle. “Heat that? I feel like you’re gonna need it.” 

Zuko wraps the robe on overtop of his pillow case and sheet modesty-concoction, and then stays like that, breathing quickly and staring at Yue. 

“Neat,” Sokka says. They don’t actually have any flint, since Zuko can make fire with his mind, so he starts digging around in the pack he arrived to the island with all those months ago. 

“Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiine,” Yue says, really dragging it out. “Seeeev— oops. EEIIIIIGHHT.”

“You can stop now,” Sokka says, pulling out the flint and.... A letter from Bato. Addressed to Zuko. 

Oops. 

“No, no. I promised thirty seconds, and I intend to keep it. SIIIIX.” 

Sokka stuffs the letter in his pocket and moves to the cooking fire, striking the flint. It lights with a rush, and Sokka moves the already full kettle onto it’s hook. 

“Yue, it’s _been—_ ”

“And a haaaaaalf,” Yue continues. “Six and a _quarter._ ”

Zuko is still staring at her like a hen-cat staring at a very large bird. Sokka can’t tell if it’s out of fear or anger. He pulls out the tin of Fire Flower tea. 

“Five-four-three-two-one-zero,” Yue finishes, removing her hands. She waves at Zuko with both hands, smiling. “Hello! Yue, moon spirit, here.”

“I don’t have a pool of water for you in here,” Sokka accuses her instantly. She’s always used a clear, inmarred pool of water to communicate with him, and he’s suspicious that it was all a long, unsatisfying prank on her end. 

“You don’t need one,” she says. “Or rather, _I_ don’t need one anymore. I… hm. It’s a long story, really. And it’s… why I’m here, right now.”

Okay. Pranks are out. Sokka allows himself to feel relieved, heavy and overwhelming. He catches himself on the edge of the table from the rush of it; after all, the moon had _disappeared._

“You’re a spirit,” Zuko says. His voice is slow, and unreadable.

“Yes,” Yue says.

“You did this to me?” he asks.

“Uh. No,” Yue says. Then purses her lips thoughtfully. “...not exactly? It’s a _long_ story. And your part in it was before my time as the moon. Inspirational, though! I mean, if some random Fire Nation royalty can turn into dragons, why couldn’t I turn into the moon?”

“You’re joking,” Zuko deadpans angrily. 

“I’m joking,” she confirms. “I was drowned. It was terrible, don’t recommend it.” 

Sokka remembers the vision that La gave him and shudders so violently that he spills the hot water all over the table. It mixes with the spilled ink and drips down the edge, hitting the papers that Zuko had been working on earlier.

“Whoops—” Yue says, craning her neck and waving her hands. The ink separates from the water as it rises out of the papers and back into the air, then dumps them in their respective pots, the force of it knocking the ink well upright again.

“I… saw that,” Sokka says, ignoring her waterbending and bracing himself on the table again. He really should sit down, if he’s going to keep getting overwhelmed like this. 

“That would be— your memories returning,” Yue says. 

Zuko wrinkles his nose. “Impossible. Hekka would have told me if he knew the moon.” 

Yue snorts. “Hakku, not Hekka. Is there— there’s a theme there, that’s weird. Is that weird?”

“You’re weird,” Sokka says, unable to resist the potshot. Yue’s smile is relieved, and she moves from the bed to flick him on the forehead. 

“Only because you love me like this,” she says meaningfully. 

Sokka opens his mouth to retort with— something funny, probably— but his vision goes white.

***

Hakku kissed her. 

Yue pushes furiously at the water, bending it away and towards her in a first-year move. It’s satisfying in its simplicity, the effort, the violence. She pulls the tide towards herself and then shoves at it again. In the distance a dockworker shouts, startled. 

It’s not _fair._ He can’t— it’s not allowed for him to want her back. She thought she was safe, falling in love with him. Hakku is in love with the silkweaver, is engaged to him willingly. They’re happy together, Yue knows they are. 

It was supposed to be a flirtation, a distraction, a yearning she could have safely in her own heart. 

“Princess,” someone says from behind her. She flinches, and the water surges away and back into the tide. Even if she can manipulate it with pure effort, she can never change the circumstances around its existence. 

Yue falls to the sand, face in her hands. 

“Princess Yue,” Kaze says again. He doesn’t approach her, and his voice is calm. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice catching in her throat. 

“Don’t be,” Hakku says. He must have brought Kaze with him, to belie any worries of unfaithfulness. Shame eats at her and she refuses to look up, the tide lapping at the hem of her robes. 

“It was my mistake,” Kaze says. That confuses her, and she twists to look at them, eyes bleary with tears. “Things work differently in the Fire Nation. I misunderstood the circumstances of your betrothal, and I encouraged Hakku in something I shouldn’t have.”

Hakku wipes a hand over his face, embarrassed. He won’t look at her. For such a large, imposing man, he sure can make himself look timid when the situation calls for it.

“You’ve done no injury to me,” Kaze continues, and takes Hakku’s hand in his. He smiles at her, and then at him. “Or to us.”

“I’ve done injury to her, Kaze,” Hakku says, voice small. “It’s-- I forgot my place.” 

“I’ll be angry about that when I stop being relieved,” Yue says, laughing a little. Snot bubbles in her nose, and she makes a face, wiping at it with her parka sleeve.

“I just wanted--” 

“Too much,” Yue interrupts, still bitter with heartache. 

“--You to be happy,” Hakku finishes. She can see the way Kaze’s thumb is caressing Hakku’s knuckles in comfort, and she swallows down bitter jealousy. 

Yue starts crying again, turns to face the water so she doesn’t have to face them. 

She will marry Hahn. It’s her duty. The war cost them dearly, and Hahn’s family is very rich. Her happiness is— irrelevant.

“Well,” she says. 

They sit next to her, one on each side. Hakku has been her closest friend for their entire lives. 

She’s known Kaze for nearly five years now. They became immediate friends after his immigration from the Fire Nation, and she’d spend hours at his side as he wove fine silks into beautiful images. He and Hakku have been engaged for nearly as many years, Hakku unwilling to leave his post at her side long enough to legitimize it. 

“Waterbenders live a long time,” she says, a non sequitur. She nudges them with her elbows, mostly joking. “Especially benders. And women tend to outlive their husbands.”

“Yue,” Hakku says reproachfully. “Don’t joke. I know you don’t love Hahn.”

“Well, your powers of perception sure are impressive,” she says. “It’s not as if I haven’t told you as much. What bearing does that have on my life, hm?”

“Hahn is…” Kaze starts, and then stares at the water. He makes some of the finest and most expensive clothes available. Hahn dresses to impress— he’s familiar with him. “Hahn is part of the reason I reached the wrong conclusion about… marital affairs, here. Does that change anything?”

“Oh,” Yue says, and the water in front of them begins to freeze. “It changes his life expectancy.”

“Princess!” Hakku reprimands, louder. 

Kaze laughs. “I don’t typically gossip, you know. But perhaps I should have said something to Hakku, or I wouldn’t have encouraged him to court you.”

Yue blushes. “That was _not_ courting.” 

“He’s a very straightforward kind of man,” Kaze agrees.

“Hhhrhgh,” Hakku says, into his hands. 

“We’re okay,” Yue says. She offers her hand to Kaze, and he squeezes it briefly, before she drops it again. No sense courting rumor. She nudges Hakku with her elbow. “We’re _okay._ We just… let’s not. Let’s not talk about what won’t be.”

Hakku is quiet for a long while, chin propped on his knees as he stares at the tide. 

“Unless something— an unfortunate accident, really— were to befall—”

“Princess!” Hakku squawks. But he’s laughing, and Yue laughs too, relieved. She elbows him again and this time he pretends to fall, exaggerated and goofy. 

“I’ve gotta know,” Kaze says, eyes twinkling as he looks between the two of them. “Who’s the better kisser, Hahn or Hakku?” 

“I—”

***

Sokka blinks awake to cold water slapping him in the face. He’s on the floor, staring up at Yue and Zuko’s worried faces. 

“You never kissed Hahn,” he accuses her. “Why would you tell Kaze that Hahn was a better kisser than me?” 

“What,” Zuko says. 

“It’s been several hundred years, get _over_ it already,” Yue says, rolling her eyes. 

“Hurgh,” Sokka says, because his head hurts and he’s trying to process all of-- that. All of that.

Zuko helps him up and he accepts the washcloth, wiping stale sweat off of his face. The tea is still steaming, so it must not have been very long. 

“This isn’t your first life,” Yue says. The teasing has fallen from her voice and face. “This is your third life.”

Sokka leans back against Zuko’s chest. He can feel the anger radiating off of him, can feel the literal heat it’s producing. But he needs the support, and Zuko doesn’t move away, hands on his shoulders. 

“I should explain how— what— _dragons_. I should explain dragons,” Yue says, and straightens her back. 

“You can explain--” heat licks across the back of Sokka’s neck and he tenses. It’s gone as soon as he flinches, and Zuko rubs apologetically at the skin with his fingers.

Sokka gets it. Zuko’s been plagued by this curse for centuries, believed that the spirits hated him, refused to acknowledge them out of spite. The idea that there were answers, have been accessible answers all this time? He reaches back to cover Zuko’s hand with his and squeezes. 

“It’s not a curse!” she says, quickly. “Or… it didn’t used to be. The world of the spirits and of humans are very close. Sometimes, after many lives, a human can become a spirit, help contribute to the balance by representing human traits. Humans become spirits by becoming dragons. Your grandfather and father— well. You know, Zuko. They hunted them, as a point of honor, after some tried to defend the Air Nomads. Dragons are near impossible to kill, but they were...determined. They killed more than could be replaced by the usual methods.”

“What the FUCK are the usual methods?” Zuko snaps. 

“Haha,” Yue says, uncomfortably. “Um, a human who represents a specific trait in their lifetime that can help the balance of the world dies. And when that human dies, they’re reunited with their memories of all their past lives. That happened with Hekka, actually—”

“What,” Zuko asks. There’s barely any sound to the word, wheezed out of him.

“Well, he was very important,” Yue goes on, as if reciting a story. Sokka wonders if that’s all this is before immediately refusing the notion. Yue wouldn’t do that to Zuko.

“Raava-- Mother of all spirits-- asked him to reincarnate instead. Typically you’re given the option, as I understand it, and the human decides what they want. The fact that Raava took him from the spirit world and specifically--”

Zuko rushes up and away from Sokka, flames exploding from him. The cabin is small, too small for it, and Sokka scrambles away from the heat.

Yue shoots him with water from her hands, dousing him, and then just holding it in a large bubble of water around him. Or— no, Sokka can still see the flames. He’s still going in there.

“You’re the honor dragon!” she calls. “Can you hear me in there? Chomp at the water twice for yes.”

“Yue,” Sokka warns, struggling to his feet. “You’re not giving him enough time to-- he can’t handle this, hold on.” He goes to lower her hand with his but it passes through her, of course. She lowers it anyways, and the bubble pops, soaking the entire cabin and the front of Sokka’s pants.

“Do you want to go into the ocean?” she asks Zuko. “I can leave a letter for you, and just talk with Sokka.”

Zuko’s chest and shoulders are heaving, and Sokka can see tears tracking down from his good eye. His claws clench and unclench, and when he speaks it’s garbled, sparks shooting from his lips.

“You took everything from me,” he says brokenly. He doesn’t look at Sokka, only at Yue. 

“Not me! I was born after you. Justice took everything from you,” Yue says. “Justice is an asshole.”

“Justice?!” Zuko howls, “What’s _justified_ about any of this? I am not the crimes of my father! Hekka had--he had nothing to do with it, he was _mine,_ and you took him!” 

Jealousy and heartache battle in Sokka’s chest, pushing painfully against his throat. He is Hekka, technically. And the grief in Zuko’s voice is compelling him, and he wants to _fix_ it. But there’s nothing that he can do as Sokka. 

“Again. Not me. I wasn’t born yet. But— that’s what I’ve been trying to get to. He was _yours,”_ Yue says, solemnly. “The honor dragon does not exist by themselves. They have to exist with a duty dragon, in tandem, to balance each other. When Azula died, the person closest to you took her place as long as they were near you, because the person closest to you was there out of _duty._ ”

Zuko sits down. He stares at the floor blankly, shaking. 

“Yue. Enough. I need you to give us a minute, give us some time,” Sokka says, stepping around the detritus to Zuko’s side. 

“I—” Yue growls in frustration, rubbing a hand over her face. “Fine. Fine! Go be human, with all your— feelings, it’s not like this is _time sensitive._ ”

She disappears, nothing but a spray of mist in the air to suggest that she had ever been there. 

“It sounds like this is time sensitive,” Sokka sighs, kneeling next to Zuko. He lays his palm on Zuko’s cheek and turns his face, searching past the blankness.

“Hey, you. You in there?” Sokka asks gently, rubbing his thumb over Zuko’s cheekbone. He has a lot to process, himself. He’s not just Sokka and Hekka, but this third guy, too. 

But Zuko needs him, and that takes precedence. 

“I think I’m going to go to sleep,” Zuko says, and closes his eyes. 

“Um. No,” Sokka says. 

“I don’t want to be awake anymore,” Zuko says, squeezing his eyes closed harder. “It’s not going well for me.”

“Welcome to life, pal,” Sokka says wryly. 

“I am _four hundred and twenty years old,”_ Zuko snaps, squeezing his eyes until his face begins to crunch up.

“Talk about fashionably late,” Sokka hums, and settles their foreheads together. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“I can’t even yell at him,” Zuko says, pulling away to rub at his nose. He keeps his eyes closed, but his face is relaxing. 

Sokka hates it even as he says it. “You can yell at me instead.” 

“You— you don’t even remember doing it,” Zuko says, and waves a hand. 

“Does that matter?” 

Zuko’s eyes snap open. They’re watery and red. “Yes, it fucking matters. How will you feel _guilty?”_

Sokka’s laugh is mirthless, and he settles more comfortably next to Zuko, hand still on his face. “I feel plenty guilty, don’t you worry. Man, I was an _asshole._ ” 

“Stop it, you don’t get to feel guilty yet,” Zuko says, and slaps at his arm gently. “You don’t even— when did you get okay with being Hekka, anyways? You don’t get to feel okay with it just so you can feel _guilty.”_

“Who said anything about that? I still hate the guy. This Hakku punk, too. Spirits, but they’re a fucking train wreck.” 

“They’re you,” Zuko says, exasperated. 

“Aha! So you _can_ yell at me about it,” Sokka says, winning.

Zuko snorts. “...she was saying something important there,” he says, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees. “But we weren’t gonna hear it, not right then. I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to have my entire worldview and self-worth obliterated by a dead princess.” 

“You have self-worth? Braggart,” Zuko deadpans.

“That’s what I like to hear!” Yue says, appearing with a clap of her hands. “Okay, yes, that time I _was_ here for it.”

Sokka drops his hand and turns to her expectantly. “Pervert,” he says. “Who knew the moon was a spying, peeping pervert?” 

“Eh, you love it,” Yue says, and flaps her hand dismissively. “So, like I was saying—” 

***

Zuko used to rail at the spirits constantly. He’s spent so long blaming them vaguely, and as a concrete entity, that he wasn’t really ready for them to be individuals. Individuals who know Sokka. Apparently across several lifetimes, and sometimes with _kissing._

Is he jealous? Is that hypocritical? It’s not like Sokka’s kissing Yue as the moon. Unless he is. But he would have mentioned that. Wouldn’t he?

“--Zuko. You’re the honor dragon. You need human contact because you don’t have a full duty dragon balancing you out. If you had stayed near your sister, before, it wouldn’t have been an issue then either. Sokka, you made the choice once to delay becoming the duty dragon. You were— you were needed elsewhere,” Yue smiles sadly. “I needed you, I guess. But your time is up, and the world can’t keep going out of balance like this. You need to choose.” 

“I need to choose what?” Sokka asks suspiciously.

Yue looks at him, eyes deeply sad. “You need to choose to die.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out art for this series at [mellomailbox's blog](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/), and more creativeness at [ang3lba3's blog](https://ang3lba3.tumblr.com/). Also, [Hekka!](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/post/620611504567353344/hekka-the-first-sacrifice-to-zuko-the-great#notes) Check out mello's [dragonpyre tag ](https://birthdaytoast.tumblr.com/tagged/dragonpyre)for other fic specific art.
> 
> We've started an 18+ Zukka Chaos discord! Click here [here](https://discord.gg/9qbzhcb)


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